Time is the Fire
by Oddment Tweak
Summary: What would you do if the only way to save the person you loved was to sacrifice everything else that you held dear? DH-Epilogue compliant, sort of. Some HP/GW and RW/Hr, but ultimately, epically, HP/Hr.
1. Prologue

**Time is the Fire**

**Prologue**

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter, Hermione Granger or any of the characters found herein. I make no profit from this other than the satisfaction I get from writing it and seeing others review it.

**Author's Note:** I have a fairly clear picture of where this story is headed, even if it's not immediately obvious. I'm not expecting it to be terribly long (somewhere in the vicinity of sixteen chapters), but things are always subject to change. Reviews are humbly requested, as their presence is a source of great inspiration, encouragement and new ideas and their absence is fundamentally discouraging. I might not be able to incorporate every single suggestion into this story, but constructive criticism can only help make this story, and me as a writer better.

This is not a songfic—I'm always put off when jarring Muggle song lyrics show up again and again in fics. That said, music plays a big role in my creative process, and as I am a huge fan of movie scores, I happen to have the Harry Potter soundtracks handy while writing this out. For those of you who want a little background atmosphere to go along with your reading and have the soundtracks (or know how to search Youtube), I'll be listing the song or songs I listened to while writing each chapter that particularly matched its tone or theme.

**Soundtrack Note:** Opening, from the Half Blood Prince soundtrack, and Forward to Time Past, from the Prisoner of Azkaban soundtrack.

* * *

"The time is out of joint—O cursed spite,  
That ever I was born to set it right!"

-William Shakespeare, Hamlet

Her movements were quiet but determined, the very definition of the word stealth. Her bones burned with an urgency that would have frightened her had she not already been numbed to it all. She had committed herself to this course of action, and now that she had finally overcome her doubts, nothing, _nothing_ would get in her way.

Except for the night watchman, suddenly emerging from the black door ahead, his shoes clacking noisily on the polished floor. She froze, not even daring to breathe. The only light came from the blue flames of the candles against the walls at the end of the hallway, behind her, but her eyes had adjusted enough to the darkness that she could see him clearly. His manner gave no indication he knew she was there, hidden beneath the cloak as she was; he seemed bored, more than anything else, his expression, his body language that of a man who has made the same rounds night after night for years with nothing out of the ordinary ever taking place. She did not relax her muscles, though, did not allow a silent sigh of relief to escape her. She remained still as a statue, though her muscles ached, not trusting herself to do anything except wait for the guard to pass her by. Stealth. Stealth was key.

He looked right at her, or rather through her, as he walked past, less than a foot away. She could see his eyes through the invisibility cloak, blue and completely vacant of surprise or recognition. He could not see her. She still did not relax her body, but her mind began to calm, the wave of adrenaline rushing through her beginning to ebb.

The night watchman neared the end of the hall, and glanced back over his shoulder, a casual look back not in response to a noise or the feeling of a presence, but it nonetheless made her blood run cold until his head turned back to watch where he was going.

She breathed, a soft exhalation out of her nose and then hardly any inhaling at all through her mouth, just allowing her lungs to slowly expand and cold air to drift to the back of her throat.

He did a double-take.

She gripped the wand in her hand so tightly she thought she might she might splinter it. She thought he might have heard her breathe, but he was not looking at the empty space where her head should be but at the ground, right where she stood. Involuntarily, her eyes flickered down, though she refused to move her head to afford a better view. Stealth was key. The cloak covered her entirely; there was no phantom shoe sticking out the edge. So what then had attracted his attention?

"Who's there?" he called, his voice uncertain, his hand reaching for his hip, his eyes staring directly at her feet.

Abruptly, she understood. The floor was of black stone, so brightly polished that it reflected the dancing blue candlelight like running water. Except around her—the cloak showed what was on the other side of it, but wrapped around her as it was its base covered the floor as well. The result was that it showed the floor, but not the light that would have reflected off of it had it not been covered in the cloak. The guard was staring at a circle of shadow in the midst of a gleaming mirror of black stone.

"Show yourself," he called again, drawing his wand.

Stealth wasn't going to cut it, evidently.

Immediately the night watchman went rigid, his arms and legs snapping straight, and he toppled over slowly like a felled tree, the Full-Body Bind placed on him made all the more impressive by the fact that she hadn't bothered to say the incantation aloud. Already she was moving, not running, but hurrying to the door, her footfalls still quiet but no longer undetectable. She was running out of time.

Soon, though…

Pushing through the door, her eyes taking a moment to adjust to the bright light coming from the lamps that hung from golden chains on the ceiling. Her vision returned to clarity just in time to reveal two men staring at the door she'd just come through curiously, one an Unspeakable, the other dressed the same as the night watchmen she'd just encountered. The Unspeakable opened his mouth stupidly, to ask a question, but the guard was quicker on his feet, already reaching for his wand. He was able to block her curse even as the other man froze and fell, sending a jet of red light towards the door with a cry of "Stupefy!" even as she was already diving to the side. Her movements must have revealed an opening in the cloak as he sent a second Stunning Spell at her new location, this one too high, passing over her head and shattering the glass wall behind her. A roar of water sounded and suddenly her feet were soaked up to her ankles as the tank behind her was emptied, and she surged forward to avoid the angry tendrils already reaching around blindly for the source of the disturbance.

The distraction was all she needed to catch the watchman off guard with a quick "Expelliarmus!" The man flew back, his wand torn from his grasp, and she barely took the time to stun him into unconsciousness with a jet of red light from her own wand before she was on towards the next room.

She no longer bothered to remain quiet now, breaking into a dead run through the large chamber, running along the edge of the stone tiers leading down to the archway that stood in the center of the amphitheatre. She paid it no heed but was unable to ignore the sound, a low, near inaudible thing, like whispers of whispers. Unable to suppress a shiver she kept going, around the other side of the stone tiers and towards the door on the other side.

Voices called out in confusion, some yelling and barking orders as she made her way into the hall, the sounds of her impromptu duel having drawn too much attention. The place was not nearly as deserted as she had hoped it would be, this late at night. She was so close…

The next room was her destination. She did not even bother pushing the door open, blasting it to splinters with a wave of her wand and a wordless Reductor Curse.

The light, dancing and shining, took her breath away for a moment, but she forced herself to step into the room and focus on what she needed to do. Clocks lined the walls, gazing at the crystal bell jar in the center of the room that illuminated it all, with racks full of tiny hourglasses at the back.

_There_.

Footsteps were coming now, and as she made her way to back of the room she pointed her wand behind her at the doorway and hissed "Silencio!" in an urgent whisper.

The witch that rounded the corner and leapt into the room thrust her own wand out and shouted something forcefully, but no sound came from her lips. Before her face could even complete a look of surprise the Body-Bind was upon her and she teetered to the ground noiselessly.

A wave of her wand cancelled the Silencing Spell, and footsteps could be heard coming down the hall, quieter than the last set but rapidly coming closer. She reached the rack of tiny glass timepieces, giving them a cursory examination as she looked for one that would suit her needs. The footsteps grew louder and she hurriedly plucked one of the larger ones out of the shelves and began placing it around her neck. The wizard to whom the footsteps belonged to reached the room and ran straight into the invisible wall of her Impediment Jinx, falling backwards as if he had been punched straight in the nose.

More footsteps announced the arrival of even more pursuers but they arrived too late. Invisibility cloak clutched around her, forgotten, she gave the hourglass around her neck a couple of quick flips, and abruptly everything… went away.

The newcomers leapt back from the door and jogged backwards back into the hall. The fallen wizard leapt to his feet and ran backwards after them. The witch reeled unnaturally back to a standing position and unfroze, drawing her wand back quickly from an attack pose before following her companions back out the door. Most unnervingly of all, her own echo, missing in parts where she did not emerge from the invisibility cloak, hurried backwards out the door, the shards of which flew from the ground into the air, coming together and taking shape, whole again.

Hours rolled back in seconds, but she did not let the Time-Turner come to a stop—rather, she kept flipping it, over and over and over again in her fingers, the door flying open and slamming shut rapidly as Unspeakables raced in and out of the room backwards, replacing Time-Turners of their own or walking in backwards circles around the glowing bell jar, examining it.

She had a long way to go, and though time was literally on her side now, her task was no less urgent, no less monumental. She knew that this could only end in one of two ways. He would be made to see reason, or she would stop him by force.

With a pang in her heart, she realized that if she had to, she would kill him.

The boy had to be protected.

But where to begin?

* * *

"So that's little Scorpius," her husband said under his breath. "Make sure you beat him in every test, Rosie. Thank God you inherited you mother's brains."

"Ron, for heaven's sake," she said, half stern, half amused. "Don't try to turn them against each other before they've even started school!"

"You're right, sorry," said Ron, but unable to help himself, he added, "Don't get _too _friendly with him, though, Rosie. Granddad Weasley would never forgive you if you married a pureblood."

"Hey!"

Harry's son James had returned, divested of his trunk, owl, and trolley, and was evidently bursting with news.

"Teddy's back there," he said breathlessly, pointing back over his shoulder into the billowing clouds of steam. "Just seen him! And guess what he's doing? _Snogging Victoire!_"

Hermione had to suppress a grin at the way his face fell when none of the adults reacted with surprise. He kept at it though, trying to impress upon them the gravity of the situation. It was astonishing how much her godson reminded her of Ron when he was that young.

Evidently, Ginny agreed. "You interrupted them?" she said. "You are _so_ like Ron."

Hermione turned her attention to her daughter as James continued to blather on, leaning forward and putting her hands on her shoulders. "You'll do brilliantly, my love," she whispered into her forehead.

"Thanks, mum," Rose whispered back. Seeing the tears in her mother's eyes, she grinned. "Don't worry, mum, I couldn't possibly get into _half_ as much trouble as you did when _you_ when to Hogwarts," she piped.

Hermione laughed, and pulled her daughter into crushing embrace. Rising, she watched Ron squat down and share a similar farewell.

"Love you, kiddo," he told her with an affectionate nudge.

"Love you too, dad."

"Watch out for Acromantulas."

"Dad!" Rose's jaw dropped in horror; both she and Hugo had inherited their father's fear of spiders, and had been told many, many times of his harrowing escape from Aragog's offspring.

"Are you _trying_ to traumatize her, Ronald?" Hermione asked him dryly.

"That's good advice, that is!" he protested. "Never, ever go into the Forbidden Forest, 'cause that's where they live. And don't do anything to get detention for, either, 'cause one time in first year McGonagall sent Harry and your mum out there to help Hagrid as punishment."

"Did they see any spiders?" Rose asked weakly.

"Nope, not that time, the spider thing happened second year." He pretended to think for a minute. "Although, if it hadn't been for Firenze—he's the Divination teacher, you'll meet him third year—You-Know-Who almost nabbed Harry. Probably would've eaten him or something. That reminds me! If any of your professors wear a turban or any sort of rubbish hat and refuse to ever take it off, owl me right away."

Rose's expression was priceless. Hermione knew she ought to be cross with him, but honestly, she was trying too hard not to laugh. She knew for a fact though that thanks to her father's ribbing, her daughter would never, ever willingly commit a detention-punishable offense in her years at Hogwarts

"One last thing," Ron whispered as he gave Rose a big hug and kiss. "If there's an annoying little know-it-all boy in your class, and he's always telling you the proper way to pronounce incantations and quoting _Hogwarts, A_ _History_ all the time…"—and here he looked up at Hermione, a twinkle in his eye—"…you be nice to him and write home to mum and dad right away, because some day you're going to marry that boy."

Ron stood up and allowed Rose to say her goodbyes to Lily and Hugo. He took up position next to his wife, putting his arm around her shoulder, and she sighed appreciatively as she rested her head against him. As she watched Hugo envelope his big sister in a hug that was clearly overly-enthusiastically rib-crushing, to judge by the look on Rose's face, she felt herself getting a little misty-eyed again. She had promised herself she wouldn't cry, even if her oldest was going off to school, and forced herself to blink back her tears.

She looked up at Ronald as he made funny faces at Rosie and Lily, who was jumping up and down excitedly and clapping at something Rose had said. She knew he felt it too. Their little girl was growing up, becoming a beautiful young woman. When he saw that she was looking at him, he smiled and gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

"_I_ wanna go to Hogwarts!" whined Hugo as he rejoined his mother's side.

"Me too! I can't wait!" cried Lily as she ran back towards her parents.

Hermione gave one Rose one last hug and kiss and saw her onto the Hogwarts Express. Taking her husband's hand in her own, the Weasley family strolled through a cloud of thick white steam over to their friends. Little Lily stood next to her mother, while Harry was crouching on the ground before Albus, speaking to him quietly. The doors were slamming all along the scarlet train, and the blurred outlines of parents were swarming forward for final kisses, last-minute reminders.

Albus jumped into the same carriage as Rose, joining his cousin, and Ginny closed the door behind him. Students were hanging from the windows nearest tem. A great number of faces, both on the train and off, seemed to be turned toward Harry.

"Why are they all _staring_?" demanded Albus as he and Rose craned around to look at the other students.

"Don't let it worry you," said Ron. "It's me. I'm extremely famous."

Albus, Rose, Hugo and Lily laughed. The train began to move, and they stood there waving, except for Harry, who walked alongside it, watching his son's thin face, already ablaze with excitement. They all kept smiling and waving, even though Hermione felt as though she was watching a piece of her heart being stolen away from her. She knew the others felt the same way.

The last trace of steam evaporated in the autumn air. The train rounded a corner. Harry's hand was still raised in farewell.

"She'll be the brightest witch of the age, just like her mother," Ron told her, smiling with his eyes but entirely earnest.

"He'll be all right," murmured Ginny to Harry.

He looked at her, lowering his hand absentmindedly and touching the lightning scar on his forehead. "I know he will."

Together, the four turned and made their way back towards the barrier to King's Cross station, Lily and Hugo running ahead.

Swinging her and Ron's arms gently back and forth, Hermione sighed in… something. Not loss, not exactly, but…

"I know exactly what that sigh means," Ginny said knowingly.

"However did you manage it when James went off to school?" Hermione moaned. "I feel like a piece of me is missing!"

"A piece of you _is_ missing," Ginny told her. "But it'll write! And come home to visit at Christmas."

"Rose'll be just fine at Hogwarts, Hermione," Harry told her with a smile. "Because of you, and the way you raised her."

"I'd like to think I have something to do with that," grumbled Ron, but his eyes gleamed with amusement.

"I feel terrible. I don't know what I'll do without her!"

"You've got to let her grow up, have her freedom. You're not giving her up, just… letting her find her own way," Harry said.

"Yeah, you've got let go, accept that they're growing up and ready to begin a chapter of their life without us watching over them every step of the way," Ginny said, a sly grin beginning to form over her face. "Or you could be like Harry when James first went, and start making Defense Against the Dark Arts guest-lectures six times a month just to be close to his little boy."

Everyone laughed, even Harry. "I'm pretty sure that'll be bumped up to twelve times a month, now that Albus has gone too," he joked.

"Do you want to stop at the Leaky Cauldron for lunch, or should we try a Muggle restaurant?" Hermione asked them.

"Ooh, let's do a Muggle restaurant," Ron answered. "I want more practice driving a Muggle car."

"No amount of practicing will ever be enough," muttered Hermione.

"Ron couldn't even drive a _wizard_ car without crashing it into the Whomping Willow," Harry muttered back. The two friends grinned at one another. Hermione was struck by how much his smile reminded her their time at Hogwarts.

"I was twelve years old!" Ron protested. Harry just stuck out his tongue cheekily, and they all laughed as they headed out for lunch.

Hermione thought about Harry's smile, and smiled herself. It no longer had the same effect on her it had had when they were all younger. She no longer even wondered what might have been, hadn't in years. She had the life that she wanted, and everything in it was the way she wanted it to be, Rose's absence excepted. Things were perfect, finally, actually perfect. She loved Ron, with all her heart. Teasing aside, they no longer fought, not the way they had before they'd dated or the epic rows they'd had before they'd married or before Rose was born. He was such a wonderful father. They had two magnificent children, and she adored being a member of such an incredible extended family—the Weasleys, and Harry and Ginny and their children. She loved James, Albus and Lily as much as she did Rose and Hugo. No, everything was just the way it was meant to be, and it had been years—nearly decades—since she had given thought, even in passing, to how else things might have turned out.

But Harry's smile still brightened her day in a way that Ginny's, or even Ron's, smile couldn't.

It must be because he had good teeth, she supposed. She was a dentist's daughter, after all, twice over.


	2. Chapter I

**Chapter I**

**The Potion Master's Puzzle / The Mask**

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. Actually, I own all seven Harry Potters, from "The Sorcerer's Stone" through "The Deathly Hallows." But that isn't what I meant and you know it.

**Author's Note:** Keep the reviews coming, folks! I love hearing what you all think so far.

I realize the Prologue may be kind of puzzling to H/Hr fans such as myself. It should all become clear over the next couple of chapters. This first chapter follows the same formula as the Prologue (I'll be following it for a good chunk of the rest of the story), but should hopefully shed some new light on things, without giving things away too quickly. If you want to know exactly what's going on... well, keep reading! Hopefully I've written it in a way that it should at least be an entertaining ride while we get to all the answers.

I'll do my best to update frequently; I've a few chapters already written, expect updates to come slower as I catch up to that. It only takes me a day or three to write a single chapter, though, so far at least, so updates shouldn't be any further apart than a week or two.

Oh, one last thing—in the interest of full disclosure, **Time is the Fire** isn't going to be chock full of lemons, I'm much more interested in the relationships between the characters (mostly between Harry and Hermione, given the pairing, obviously). That said, later chapters will have some steaminess (three guesses as to between who), and I am of the philosophy that if you're going to write a sex scene for the right reasons _anyway_, then it might as well be as hot as is feasibly possible. I'll do my best to keep everything in-character, so no worries on that front. If you don't want your mind's eye ruined from seeing J. K. Rowling's characters doing M-rated things, well, then, you shouldn't be reading an M-rated Harry Potter fan-fic. Now, onto the story!

**Soundtrack Note: **A Window to the Past, from the Prisoner of Azkaban soundtrack.

* * *

"I want to go ahead of Father Time with a scythe of my own."

-H.G. Wells

She trailed after them, shrouded in invisibility, careful to stay far enough from them that they wouldn't notice her presence but close enough that she wouldn't miss the cutoff as they passed through the foul-smelling room with the unconscious, battered troll and into the next chamber.

The hardest part had not been following them, though that had taken its toll on her, physically and emotionally. The hardest part had been deciding which moments to observe them in, which moments she thought the most crucial. She couldn't be with them through every moment of their lives; even with a Time-Turner and an invisibility cloak, they were too smart, and surrounded by too many smart people, for her to remain undetected for any length of time. No, she had no choice but to watch over only the moments that had been the most important in their young lives, the ones that would forge the bonds he would try to sever.

They would be together when he made his move, she knew that much. And he wouldn't choose just any time. He would choose from among the same moments that she did, those most important to him. The question was, which one would it be? This one? It was the first, and perhaps, to her, one of the most important of her life.

As they passed the threshold into the next chamber, a fire immediately sprang up behind them in the doorway. It wasn't ordinary fire either; it was purple. At the same instant, black flames shot up in the doorway leading onward. They were trapped.

"Look!" the girl shouted, seizing a roll of paper lying next to the bottles that stood in line atop a table along the wall.

"_Brilliant_," the girl said, her voice higher pitched than she remembered it being. "This isn't magic—it's logic—a puzzle. A lot of the greatest wizards haven't got an ounce of logic, they'd be stuck in here forever."

"But so will we, won't we?"

"Of course not," said the girl. "Everything we need now is here on this paper. Seven bottles: three are poison; two are wine; one will get us safely through the black fire, and one will get us back through the purple."

Concealed beneath the cloak, she allowed herself a smile at the girl's tone, the confidence that others would mistake for arrogance. Already she could see her mind beginning to race, as she struggled to make sense of the clue presented to her, file them away, compartmentalize them, fit them together like pieces of a puzzle. Only she could see the nagging self-doubt the girl concealed from him, the fear that she would fail him, fail herself.

"But how do we know which to drink?" the boy asked.

"Give me a minute."

She watched, drawing back to give them room as the girl read and reread the paper again, walking up and down the line of bottles, muttering to herself and pointing at them.

For his part, the boy did not interrupt her, allowing her to reason it out herself. He knew she needed her concentration, and he could only hinder her here, in her own realm.

Slowly it dawned on her that she had miscalculated, relied too much on her own feelings instead of trying to anticipate his thoughts, as she should have. Surely it had not begun here, she thought. Not for him. There had been too much on his mind, too much pressure, for him to worry about anything else. The girl was a burden to him, in this, his first trial against the darkness. He needed to be freed of her, to know that she was safe so he could turn his full attention to the task at hand—protecting the Stone, and hopefully surviving as well.

"Got it," said the girl, clapping her hands. "The smallest bottle will get us through the black fire — toward the Stone."

He looked at the tiny bottle.

"There's only enough there for one of us," he said. "That's hardly one swallow."

They looked at each other.

"Which one will get you back through the purple flames?"

The girl pointed at a rounded bottle at the right end of the line.

"You drink that," said the boy. "No, listen, get back and get Ron. Grab brooms from the flying-key room, they'll get you out of the trapdoor and past Fluffy — go straight to the owlery and send Hedwig to Dumbledore, we need him. I might be able to hold Snape off for a while, but I'm no match for him, really."

"But Harry — what if You-Know-Who's with him?"

"Well — I was lucky once, wasn't I?" said he, pointing at his scar. "I might get lucky again."

The girl's lip trembled, and she suddenly dashed at the boy and threw her arms around him.

"_Hermione_!"

"Harry—you're a great wizard, you know." She held him tightly, desperately, in awe of his courage, not willing to see him go through the flames to what could be his death.

"I'm not as good as you," said the boy, very embarrassed, as she let go of him.

"Me!" the girl scoffed. "Books! And cleverness! There are more important things—friendship and bravery and— oh Harry— be careful!"

She realized now that she had chosen the wrong moment. He would not come here, to this time, this place. Why would he have? This was not the night he had fallen in love with her.

"You drink first," said the boy. "You are sure which is which, aren't you?"

"Positive," said the girl. She took a long drink from the round bottle at the end, and shuddered.

"It's not poison?" he asked anxiously. It was only a testament to his faith in her and her mind that he would have ever let the girl risk consuming poison, she knew.

"No—but it's like ice."

"Quick, go, before it wears off."

"Good luck—take care—" choked the girl, hiding the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks at the thought of losing him.

"GO!"

The girl turned and walked straight through the purple fire. Only she saw the girl's shoulders shake and tremble as she lost composure, for she alone knew what to look for. The gentle licking of the flames concealed the sobs that she knew were being shed on the other side.

The boy took a deep breath and picked up the smallest bottle. He turned to face the black flames. She studied him, her eyes surveying his face, trying to read the emotions she saw wrestling for dominance there. He was relieved, now that her safety was assured. He felt no less burdened, though—if anything, he allowed himself for the first time to show that burden openly, now that the girl was gone and he thought himself alone. His face showed fear, and uncertainty, and ultimately that deep-set determination she recognized in him instantly.

"Here I come," he said, and he drained the little bottle in one gulp. Then he set it down, braced himself, and walked forward without a moment's hesitation into the blazing wall of darkness. Such was his confidence in her.

She was alone. There was no need for her to consume any of the potions to leave. With a few minutes' spinning of the Time-Turner, she would be in a time, either before or after this year, when there were no such precautions or enchantments guarding this section of the castle. Afterwards, she decided. Onward, to the next moment, the next opportunity to undo the destruction he had wrought.

He hadn't chosen this night. But coming here had not been a mistake. Indeed, she was glad she had come here first, for she had needed to see this, experience it all over again. It had given her the strength to carry on, to do what must be done, shown her the innocence she had sacrificed so much for to protect.

No, this was not the night he had fallen in love with her.

It had been the night she had fallen in love with him.

* * *

"Do you need any help with that?" Hermione asked.

"Not at all, have a seat! I feel like we haven't spent time together in forever! The last thing I want is to waste your time cooking dinner," replied Ginny, waving her wand in a circle lazily, directing the spoon she'd enchanted to stir the bowl on the kitchen counter, across the room.

"It wouldn't be any trouble," Hermione said with a smile as the two sat down at the kitchen table, the delicious aromas of minced garlic and roasted meats filling the room. "And we just went out to lunch the other day!"

"Yeah, but that was with Ron and Harry and the children," Ginny replied. "I mean some girl time, just the two of us!"

"I do like the sound of that," she admitted. Hugo and Lily were both at their grandparents' for the night, almost certainly being spoiled rotten by Molly and Arthur. "Things sure have been busy lately, haven't they?"

"Don't I know it! How're things at the Ministry?"

Hermione sighed.

"That bad, huh?" Ginny said with a reassuring smile.

"I don't know what it is, honestly. Things are much better than they used to be, and we're _finally_ past all that Pureblood favoritism nonsense, but… I'm doing good work there, I know that, but it feel's like something's missing."

"Oh?" Ginny asked, her curiosity piqued.

"Well, yes. I got into law enforcement because I wanted to make a difference, change the way the Ministry did things, make things the way they _ought_ to be, not the way they were when we were kids."

"You've made a _huge_ difference! You've completely turned things around, Hermione! We have a Ministry we can actually be proud of now, and that's thanks to you," Ginny told her sister-in-law firmly.

"Only now that I have, it feels like… what is there left for me to do there, you know?" Hermione asked.

"Thinking perhaps of transferring back to the fourth level?" Ginny asked, referring to her best friend's time at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

"Maybe… there's only so much one can do from inside the office, though. The Wizengamot's where the real decisions are made. I've thought about the Department of International Cooperation a bit, I have always wanted to travel, but I couldn't possibly go now, with poor Hugo all alone now that his sister's gone off to Hogwarts…"

"You poor dear!" Ginny exclaimed, animating a knife across the room to start chopping onions. "And to think I was going to complain about all the writing I've had to do covering Quidditch results for the Prophet. Well, Hugo is going off to school next year, right? You could always transfer in a year or two, you're more than qualified enough for the position, I just know you'll get it!"

Her eyes flashed. "Oh! I know! You said the Wizengamot's where all the real decisions are made, right?"

Hermione eyed her friend suspiciously. "I did…"

"Then why don't you run for office? Just think about it! You'd be grand, and you'd be able to show those stuffy old gits the way things really ought to be done!"

Hermione stared at her friend like she'd sprouted Flesh-Eating Slugs all over her face.

"Ooh, and then some day you could run for Minister! You'd get to travel loads with that job. I can see the headline of the Prophet now: 'Minister for Magic Hermione Weasley, the Best Witch to Have Ever Held the Office!'"

"Oh, Merlin, _please_ don't say that," Hermione chided her friend. "Kingsley's wonderful, I could never measure up…"

"Don't be so sure of that!" the redhead pressed. "You never thought you'd do a very good job in law enforcement, either, and you've already completely revolutionized the entire Wizarding World!"

"Yes, well, I haven't made up my mind what I'm going to do yet," Hermione told her. "So don't start putting any ideas into people's heads…"

"I haven't the slightest idea what you mean by that," her friend said with a devilish grin.

"Well, whatever you do, don't mention anything daft to Ron, I beg of you. He'll never let up on me until I get appointed Queen if you do, you have to promise me."

Ginny just smiled at her. "Oh, would you look at that, supper's done!" she exclaimed, levitating the bowl of mashed potatoes over to the table and summoning the roast from the oven.

"Ginevra Potter, that was not a promise!"

The two friends talked and laughed over their dinner until it was well into the evening. "Oh, Harry'll be home soon," Ginny remarked as she started to pick up empty plates and carry them over to the sink.

"Let me take those!" Hermione reproved her friend. "You've done enough, making such a wonderful meal. I'll clean up."

"Alright," Ginny agreed, touched by Hermione's insistence on helping her out. "Just let me put a Stasis Charm on Harry's leftovers and then I'll pop up to the loo."

Hermione decided not to bother with magic and to wash up the dishes the old-fashioned way. Having turned on the sink, though, she realized that Ginny must feel differently for she was lacking any of the items necessary to give plates a good scouring.

She ended up Transfiguring one of Ginny's spoons into a scrubbing brush. So much for no magic. But she did find it somewhat soothing to take care of the rest of it using her own elbow grease instead of a few quick spells. She was the kind of woman whose mind was always running. Sometimes she just felt the urge to do something mindless for a while, to just stop thinking and plug away at something. Next to curling up with a good book or snuggling up to Ron or the children, housework was one of her favorite methods of relaxing.

It was a good thing, too, given the man she was married to. Honestly, it wasn't as if she was asking _him_ to do it all by hand; Ron acted as if he didn't know even the simplest of cleaning spells!

Drying up the last plate, Hermione heard the fire erupt in the lounge. Oh good, Harry must be home, she thought.

She heard Ron's voice as she went to go greet him; the two must have Flooed in together, then.

"…I'm just sayin', mate, why all the secrecy?"

"I'm telling you Ron," came Harry's voice. He sounded irritated. "Nothing happened. I'm fine."

"Yeah, but…"

"I don't want to talk about it," Harry snapped with a sense of frustrated finality. "And I think you ought to go home."

He bumped into Hermione in the doorframe, not expecting her. He just stared at her, his eyes widening, his mouth opening a bit, looking as if he'd just seen a ghost.

"Harry?"

He seemed shaken to hear the sound of her voice.

"What is it—oh!" She looked down to see that his right hand was heavily bandaged. Evidently it needed to be changed, as there were clearly visible dried bloodstains across it.

He continued to stare at her. Hermione began to feel a little uneasy. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. In all her years of knowing him, she'd always been able to read the face of her best friend. But tonight… his face was a mask, an intense, unreadable mask.

"You okay, mate?" Ron asked.

He didn't reply. His eyes, those eyes, burning into her with such _force_, as if he were seeing her for the first time, and trying to make sense of what it was that was before him…

"What happened to your hand?" she asked him, hoping to snap him out of his trance.

It worked. Reeling back as if he'd been slapped, Harry averted his eyes. "It's nothing," he said gruffly, his voice low, wholly unable to meet her gaze. "Clumsiness at the office."

Ron snorted.

"Then why hasn't your hand been healed yet?" Hermione demanded, taking out her wand to see about fixing his wounds.

"Don't bother," Harry said, drawing back, still not looking at her. "Cut it on an enchanted artifact. Magic won't work. Just have to let it heal up the old fashioned way." He turned and left the room, heading into his work study.

"Ronald!" Ginny called out happily as she came down the stairs. Completely missing the expressions on Hermione's and Ron's faces, she greeted her brother with a hug. "Good to see you. Have a seat, there's enough food for you and Harry both. Me and Hermione were just about to open up a bottle of Firewhiskey."

"Actually, uh, we were just lea—" Ron began, looking at Hermione and then over her shoulder at Harry, who'd emerged from his study carrying a stack of papers.

"No, stay," Harry said, and Hermione didn't miss how his eyes looked at everything _but_ her as he strolled back into the living room. "I've got to go back to the office anyway, you can keep Ginny company."

"Oh, really?" Ginny asked, disappointed.

"Sorry, love," Harry said, giving her a quick kiss on the lips. "Gotta lot of paperwork."

Ginny nodded in understanding. To Ron and Hermione, though, the excuse sounded entirely hollow.

"Wait, look! What happened to your hand?" Ginny cried when she noticed the bloodied bandages.

Harry shrugged, casually, but Hermione noticed the way his face set grimly when he was asked. "It's nothing, really. Just a bit of an accident at the department. It'll heal up in no time, really."

Harry turned and threw some powder into the fireplace. The flames roared with the eerie green light of Floo powder and without another word he stepped inside and vanished. Ron looked at Hermione, bewildered as Ginny ushered them into the kitchen, making small talk along the way, but she shot her husband a warning glance and mercifully he acted as though nothing out of the ordinary had taken place for the rest of the visit to his sister's place.

It wasn't until they'd returned to their own home that Hermione was able to drill him for information.

"What the hell happened today?" she asked him as she and Ron got ready for bed.

"I don't know much more than you do. I was in briefings all morning, so I missed the excitement. But I talked to Demeter later on in the day and she told me what she knew," he said as he pulled off his trousers, referring to Harry's secretary.

"She said office rumor had it he'd been excited about a security detail job at the Ministry, took it over himself."

"What kind of job?" she asked, changing into her nightgown.

"Nobody knows. Something secret though, that much I can tell you. He had Flitney and Murkins with him, even they didn't know what it was they were moving."

"How strange…" she said.

"It gets weirder," Ron told her as he crawled into bed. "Demeter says Murkins told her that after the transfer Harry wanted to take a look at whatever it was they'd been moving, had them wait outside. Less than five minutes later, they heard him scream and the sound of something being smashed to bloody bits."

"What did they see?" she asked, climbing in next to him.

"Dunno. She said that he wouldn't let them get a good look at it. Whatever happened, it shook him up pretty badly, though." He put his arms around her, and she rolled onto her side, so she could more comfortably snuggle up to him. "That's not the worst of it, though. I mean, this is _Harry_ we're talking about! If he can't talk about it with us, something rotten must be going on."

Hermione nodded, lost in thought. The way he'd _looked _at her… There was something frightening about it. Something alien, and intense. And his hand…

"I'm worried about him, Ron."

"Me too," he said, squeezing her closer to him. "But he'll talk about it when he's ready to talk about it. We've just got to be patient with him."

"I guess…" She wasn't so sure.

"Good night, love." He kissed the top of her head.

"Night, dear."

Ron turned off the light. She lay there in the dark for a long time, unable to sleep. Worse than the way he'd looked at her was the way he _hadn't _looked at her afterwards. The way his eyes had studiously avoided her, like he'd been trying to pretend she wasn't there. Like she'd done something to upset him, or like he'd been _ashamed_ of her.

What was it that he had seen that so disturbed him?

More importantly, why has it made him stare at _her_ like that, and not Ron or Ginny?


	3. Chapter II

**Chapter II**

**Petrified / Trouble in Paradise**

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, or any of the characters found in this fic. I did own Luna Lovegood, briefly, but lost her in a game of Gobstones to a charming British woman. I hope she treats her well.

**Author's Note:** We're getting there, folks, slowly but surely… it won't be too much longer now until you know exactly what's going on.

To all of my reviewers, thank you SO MUCH for your support and thoughts! I appreciate your comments immensely, and I'm doing my best to give you something worth all the encouragement.

To those who've read but haven't reviewed yet… it would only take a moment of your time, really! Your feedback helps, it really does. Writers are finicky creatures, always in need of a morale boost. Your comments not only lift my spirits, they give me ideas and show me what's important to you all out there.

**Soundtrack Note: **Loved Ones and Leaving, from the Order of the Phoenix soundtrack.

* * *

Dost thou love life? then do not squander time; for that is the stuff life is made of.

-Benjamin Franklin

The girl lay in the bed, motionless. The loud fall of approaching footsteps did not cause her to stir. They stopped momentarily, as the Matron paused to look in on her. She let out a noise somewhere in between a cough and a choked sob, but the girl still did not stir.

The footsteps continued as the Matron continued on down the hospital wing. So many of her students…

Beside the girl, in the next bed over, lay the Ravenclaw prefect. She, too, did not stir.

None of them stirred.

The girl's eyes were still open, staring upward, glassy and unseeing. Were it not for the unnatural rigidity of her arms, still held out from her small frame, one would think her dead. Corpses grew stiff with rigor mortis, but the girl was literally a statue.

There came a clattering as the Matron let herself out of the ward and the door closed behind her.

She stood at the foot of the bed, staring down at her. The girl's mouth was frozen open, a tight little 'o' of surprise, revealing her too-large front teeth. Her hair still a bushy mess, though the strands were now as solid as stone.

She had gone further ahead already, witnessed the boy's defeat of the Horcrux in the Chamber. She had thought perhaps that he might have chosen that moment to make his move, in that place he would have believed only he and the boy could enter. He had not come, though, and so she had returned to this place in this time. She still wore the cloak; though the Matron had left for the night and the Petrified could not perceive her, she knew that she would not be alone for long.

Indeed, only moments passed before the door loudly creaked in that way that doors only seem to be able to do when someone is trying to ease them open silently. The sound paused, and then a second creak came as the newcomer tried to ease the door closed again.

She drew back from bed, no longer bothering to tip-toe quietly; she had learned after a few nights' surveillance that a quick Silencing Charm cast on her shoes was a far more effective way of remaining undetected, anyway. Beneath the cloak, she looked around. Though someone else had indeed entered the room, there was no sign of them. It was only when she closed her eyes and listened that she could hear the slight pattering of tiny feet as the late-night visitor approached the girl's bed.

Evidently it had been decided that with no one conscious in the vicinity, stealth was no longer necessary, because there was a ripple in the air besides the girl, and then the boy appeared, emerging from his own invisibility cloak.

"Hermione?" he asked, quietly.

There came no reply, of course.

The boy pulled a chair up to the side of her bed and sat.

He began to speak, in whispers, and she drew closer to him and the girl, wanting to hear him. Never before had she known what was said this night.

"They say that they can't hear me," he told her in a small voice. "But I thought—I thought of what you would want… and I thought that, maybe you would want me to come sit with you for a while, even, even if you can't hear me."

There came a long silence. He tried to hold her hand, but in its Petrified position it was too awkward for him to fit his fingers in, so he clasped both hands around it. His face was pained.

She felt for him, deeply. His world was falling apart; his best friend Petrified, the groundskeeper taken to Azkaban, all the talk of the school he considered more a home to him than any place he'd ever been in his entire life being closed down…

"Madam Pomfrey wouldn't let us come see you," he told her. "She says she doesn't want to take any more chances, that the Heir of Slytherin might come here to finish you all off…"

More silence. It was too dark, and he was too emotional, and clasping the wrong hand, for him to discover the slip of paper she concealed. No, that would all happen later. It was for the best that he not learn her discovery until he was ready, she knew…

"They arrested Hagrid," he told her. "Took him to Azkaban. That's the wizards' prison, I'm not sure if there's anything about that in _Hogwarts, A History_… And worst of all they've removed Dumbledore as Headmaster, that prat Lucius Malfoy convinced the school governors to kick him out."

He stopped speaking again, and he realized that he was pausing each time he told her something to give her a chance to reply, though whether he was actually imagining her responses or only hoping for her to say something she knew not.

"Ron says there isn't any point in talking to a Petrified person." He leaned forward, to look at her, to see if there was any sign of movement, any gleam of recognition in her eyes.

All he found was glassy oblivion.

"I'm beginning to think he's right," the boy admitted. "But, I didn't want you to be here all… alone…"

He sniffled then, just a bit, though he gave a grin for the girl's benefit. "I wouldn't want to be stuck in a hospital bed for weeks with no one but Colin Creevey and Nearly Headless Nick for company, either…" he said, trying to keep his tone light, though he did not quite manage it.

He brushed the girl's hair with the back of his fingers, softly, and was visibly disturbed at its unnatural solidity, the strands not separating at his touch. He sat there for several minutes in silence, not moving at all except to alternate between holding her hand with both of his or to stroke her hair.

"Professor Sprout says the Mandrakes are almost mature," he whispered after a while. "Just a few more weeks, and Madam Pomfrey will have that potion ready for you, and you'll be back just the way you were, you'll see…"

He leaned in close and murmured something into the girl's ear that she couldn't overhear. Such was her curiosity, her _need_ to know, that she actually gave the Time-Turner a partial tilt back, so that only one grain passed through the tunnel into the next chamber, and walked slowly around him so that she would be better positioned when he said it again.

"Just a few more weeks, and Madam Pomfrey will have that potion ready for you, and you'll be back just the way you were, you'll see…"

He leaned in close, and murmured, "And I'll never let anything like this happen to you ever again, I swear."

He stood up and, after a moment's hesitation, gave the girl a kiss on the forehead, a quick, chaste thing that made her heart melt.

"I miss you, Hermione," he whispered. And after checking carefully that things were as he had found them, he disappeared beneath his cloak again.

After a few more moments, she heard the door creak open and shut, and he was gone. Beneath her own cloak, a hand reached up to brush the tears from her cheeks.

Forward and forward she turned the Time-Turner, until the sun suddenly began to rise earnestly and her eyes hurt from the sudden exposure to the light. The doors flew open as the Matron zipped through the ward, stopping at each bed for an instant or two of examination, her head and hands twitching unnaturally fast like the movements of a hummingbird. She zipped out of the ward again, gone to treat students with more mundane injuries in the rest of the hospital wing, only to return a few seconds later. Back and forth she zipped, and the old Transfiguration professor sped into the room, too, for an animated discussion that lasted only seconds. Already the sun was sinking beneath the horizon, and the room darkening again…

Faster and faster twirled the hourglass between her fingers, until she could no longer see individuals, just the blurs they left behind them. Only the Petrified remained visible, as immobile as the walls of the castle around them or the beds they lay in. The sun rose high up into the sky and immediately began to sink, over and over and over again until there was merely a constant strobing effect to see by. Abruptly the girl in the bed vanished, as did her companions, and she knew she had gone too far.

Winding back the Time-Turner, she arrived just as the Matron, assisted by the dumpy Herbologist, began to apply the potions to the afflicted. Briefly she debated remaining, curious to see how they would ever be able to give a potion to the incorporeal Nearly Headless Nick, but decided against it. She had just enough time to reach the feast in the Great Hall.

It was there that she stood over the boy's shoulders as he ate his steak and kidney pudding and jacket potatoes; evidently destroying the memory of the Dark Lord and freeing the noble elf from slavery had caused him to work up an appetite. But all thoughts of food were forgotten when the doors opened wide and admitted the girl. Silence fell for a moment, and then the hall erupted into a cacophony of wild cheers, whoops and applause as the Matron ushered the formerly Petrified into the feast.

The girl ran to her friends. "You solved it! You solved it!" she screamed. She flung herself around the boy's neck, and he received her eagerly, overjoyed to have her return to him. Only she, from her vantage point beneath the cloak, saw the boy's eyes close and his lips move in a silent _Thank You_ that even the girl missed. Though she had never known him to be particularly religious, she thought perhaps that he might be speaking to God.

She remained to witness the girl shake the red-headed boy's hand in a professional, business-like manner, to witness the Hufflepuff boy come over to apologize profusely, to witness the groundskeeper's triumphant return, cuffing the boy and his red-headed friend so hard on the shoulders that they were knocked into their plates of trifle.

Eventually though, she realized that this evening would not be the moment, either. It had been a good guess, but she would have to journey onward. Tearing herself away from the sight of the girl's distress at the notice that exams had been canceled, she reached for the Time-Turner. She would watch over the boy, tonight, just in case, but she no longer believed that he would come here.

At least, she now knew, that whenever he had made his move, it was indeed in the future, relative to this night.

For she had seen the boy slay the Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets tonight, and she had seen the movement of his lips when he lay there on the cold stone, venom flowing through his veins, seen the name he uttered soundlessly with what he had thought to be his dying breath...

"_Hermione…"_

* * *

Hermione threw herself into her work, reviewing case files and forward recommendations to prosecutors, grateful for the distraction it provided her with. Things with Harry had only grown worse. He hadn't spoken a word to her in nearly a month, and was avoiding her as if she had Spattergroit. The few times she'd actually seen him, he always excused himself—to the others, never directly to her—and either left for the office or locked himself in his study. And he never, ever looked at her.

He hadn't acted this strangely since after the war ended. That summer after he'd defeated Voldemort, back when they'd all been trying to figure out how to bring their lives back to normal, he'd avoided her and Ron both, barely speaking to either of them. He hadn't been able to look at her then, either, and at the time she had girlishly wondered whether he was steering clear of her because she was his best mate's girlfriend and he was jealous. But then he had spent all his time with Ginny that summer, practically to the exclusion of anyone else, and she had realized the depths of his passion for the redheaded girl. She and Ginny had both gone back to Hogwarts to complete their last year together, and when they'd returned over Christmas holiday Harry again seemed fine and ready to let them in again, and she'd eagerly reconnected with her friend, never knowing what had driven away the man who would later be best man at her wedding, herself the maid of honor at his and Ginny's.

She wasn't the only one affected by his recent behavior. Ron and Ginny were suffering to, she knew; Ron was with him nearly constantly at the office, and he'd told her that Harry too was burying himself in work, the only interactions between the two of them being strictly business. As for Ginny… despite having completely missed the events of the night Harry had last spoken to Hermione, it hadn't taken her long to figure out something was terribly wrong with her husband. He was having night terrors, she said, and was hardly ever home anymore. Even poor Lily had been crying, her father having ceased coming in at night to tuck her in anymore.

Hermione knew that something had to be done, but hadn't the slightest idea what the proper course of action might be. She felt so _miserable_ about it all; in all the time that she'd been a member of the Weasley-Potter extended family, she'd never gone more than a week or two without a visit from Harry, or catching a working lunch with him, and now he had severed all ties with her as if he wanted to completely cut her out of his life, without even the slightest explanation. Harry was… if Ronald was her rock, her foundation, then Harry was like her sky, always there to watch over her. And now that sky was beginning to fall, and they were all getting crushed by it in the process.

Her mobile rang, a neat little device that allowed her to communicate with Muggle or enchanted phones or through fireplaces hooked up to the Floo Network, and she answered it, suddenly no longer interested in filing reports.

"Hermione?"

"Ginny? What's wrong, you sound awful!"

"It-it's Harry", exclaimed her friend, sounding as though she'd been crying. "Thing's have been getting worse."

"Oh, love," Hermione said sadly, trying to comfort her friend as best she could.

"He-he won't even sleep in the same bed as me anymore!" her sister-in-law sobbed.

"Has he told you anything about what's wrong yet?" Hermione asked her. After it had become clear that things were getting worse she'd filled the red-head in on the night that Harry had first started acting oddly, and about what Ron had heard at the office, but none of them had found out anything more since.

"No! He's barely speaking to me at all! I don't know what's _wrong _with him!" her friend wailed, beginning to cry again in earnest.

"Oh, Gin, I'm so sorry for you…" Hermione said softly, her heart breaking for the woman on the other end of the phone. She stayed on the line with her while she blubbered, offering her reassurances and soothing words until she'd regained some of her composure.

"He's been assigning himself to stakeouts and raids, did Ron tell you that? He's the head of the department, why does every case suddenly need his own personal oversight? He's looking for excuses to not come home at night, that's what it is!" Ginny told her, no longer crying but her voice having an awful, defeated tone to it.

"Gin, I'm sure that things'll—"

"He's been drinking every night," the redhead said matter-of-factly.

"Ha-has he been… _hitting_ you?" Hermione asked, scarcely believing she was asking the question.

"What? Oh, no, _Merlin_ no! He would never—but… it's been bad, the last few nights. He'll speak two words to me all night, and when I confront him about it he just gets absolutely narked and retreats to his study. And now he's been sleeping on the couch, completely pissed on gin or pumpkin brandy or Firewhisky, whatever bottle he can get his hands on."

Hermione sat in dull silence while her friend filled her in on what Harry had been like the past few nights.

"And Lily?"

Harry's wife let out an exhausted sigh. "She's absolutely devastated. At first he was fine, whenever he was around her, like he was the one thing that made him feel alright. But lately he's gone all stroppy on her, too, he doesn't even kiss her goodbye before leaving like he always used to. She's _ten years old_, Hermione! How am I supposed to explain to her why her daddy's acting all wrong?"

"Have her come stay with us," Hermione said suddenly. "Just until this all gets sorted out. Ron and I would be happy to have her, and Hugo'll be thrilled. She can sleep in Rose's room."

"That… might be for the best." Ginny sighed again. "Maybe then it'll finally sink into him that what he's doing is tearing this family apart."

Hermione didn't know what to say to that.

"I've got to go," Ginny said wearily. "I'm going out with Lily today, to try and cheer her up. I'll ask her what she thinks about going to see Aunty Hermione and Uncle Ron for a few—I don't know, days? Weeks?"

"It won't be for that long," Hermione told her firmly. "We'll get to the bottom of this, make things right again. Together."

"Thank you so much, Hermione," her sister-in-law said gratefully. "You're such an angel, I don't know what I'd do without you to talk to."

"You'll never have to worry about that, dear. Give Lily my love."

"Bye, 'Mione."

Hermione sat behind her desk for a long time after that, staring blankly at the papers on her desk. There was no way she'd be able to get any more work done today.

What could they _do_? She debated having Ron, Ginny and her, maybe George too, hold an intervention for him. Cast an Anti-Disapparition Jinx on the house, put Imperturbable Charms on the doors and fireplace, and hold him at wandpoint until he told them what was wrong. She dismissed the idea, but was entirely convinced that Ron's advice to let him come to them on his own was no longer cutting it.

She just couldn't understand why he was acting so horribly. Could he have been cursed? It seemed likely enough given his profession. Perhaps that enchanted artifact he'd cut his hand on had been full of Dark magic? Should they take him to St. Mungo's? He would never go willingly, she knew that.

She left work early that evening, and headed straight home, waiting for her husband to get in. Ron arrived back late, as usual, but stayed up to talk to her about her conversation with his sister and what she'd learned.

"The fucking_ prat_," he growled, his eyes flashing angrily. One of the many things Hermione loved about Ron was his protective streak, and no one, not even Harry, got away with mistreating his sister.

"Yes, well, what are we going to do about it?" she asked him.

"Besides beating some sense into that skull of his?"

"_Yes_, besides that!"

Ron sighed. He didn't have seem to have any better a clue than she did.

They lay there in bed, both worried for their friend. "There has to be a reason he's been acting so beastly lately," she interjected. It was the not knowing why that was killing her.

"It's that artifact," Ron told her. "Whatever it is, he's only been all barmy since he saw it."

"Have you found out anything else about it?" she asked him.

He shook his head. "Not a word. But Demeter's been worried about him too. She told me today that he's had something delivered to his office, something he's keeping under wraps. She says that whatever he's locked himself in there with, it was delivered _under armed guard_."

Hermione's eyes widened. "You don't think he'd have…"

"Of course he would! Murkins and Flitney think he's trying to fix it, even if they heard about the thing from me first, 'cause no one told them it was being moved again. Whatever's causing this whole mess, it's got him obsessed over it, and it's _in his bloody office_."

"Then we'll have to sneak into his office and have a look at it, then, won't I?" Hermione said, determinedly.

"You're damn right we will," her husband agreed.

She looked at him, her expression grim. "It has to be dark magic, Ron," she told him. "Nothing else could affect Harry so. Something that slowly drives you mad, or isolates you from loved ones so that you're more suggestible to its powers, or any of a thousand other foul things."

"The thought had crossed my mind," he told her. "It has to be destroyed, fully destroyed, once and for all." He scowled. She knew he was thinking of Voldemort's locket.

"Then we're in agreement," she replied, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath.

_Soon_, she told herself. _Soon all of this will be over, and our lives will all go back to normal…_

She almost believed it to be true.


	4. Chapter III

**Chapter III**

**The Patronus / St. Mungo's**

**Disclaimer:** If I actually _did_ own Harry Potter, do you think you'd be reading this on FFN? Don't be silly. The Wrackspurts own Harry Potter, everyone knows that.

**Author's Note:** If you've read this far I'd really like to thank you for sticking with it. All of your questions will be answered, I swear! Extra thanks go to those kind enough to take the time to review my work. I appreciate your comments immensely, I'm nearly as fond of them as Dumbledore is of knitting patterns.

You may have noticed a distinct lack of Weasley-bashing in this fic. Even though I'm a Harry/Hermione shipper, I've never really had anything against Ron and Ginny; fics that turn Ron into an abusive drunk or Ginny into a manipulative bitch have never really sat well with me. I like to keep things closer to canon—both are genuinely good people who love and adore their spouses and are probably terrific parents. Not that they're anywhere near as good for Harry and Hermione as the latter two are for each other, of course. You'll have to keep reading to find out why things ended up the way they did, but I promise, you're almost to the core of it. The next couple of chapters, especially, will be chock full of answers, and HP/Hr goodness to boot.

**Soundtrack Note: **Buckbeak's Flight, from the Prisoner of Azkaban soundtrack.

* * *

"The only reason for time is so that everything doesn't happen at once."

-Albert Einstein

The boy emerged from the cabin and, edging around it cautiously, cocked his head and listened. Loud yelps came from the distance, growing fainter the longer he listened for them.

For a fraction of a second he stood there, staring out at the lake, his heart warring between doing what he ought to do and doing what he _needed_ to do.

Shadows cut through the night, and the forest air took on a sudden chill. Dementors, emerging out of the darkness in every direction, gliding around the edges of the lake… they were moving away from where the boy stood, to the opposite bank.

He began to run, and she followed him, unnoticed. So focused was he on what was about to happen that she doubted she even needed the cloak to remain unseen.

Behind them in the groundskeeper's cabin remained the girl, and the hippogriff. The girl would only take a few seconds to realize exactly he was up to and then chase after him, but she would be slowed by the beast, who would not come willingly.

The boy reached the edge of the lake, but he did not find what he was looking for there. There was a bush at the edge of the water. He threw himself behind it, peering desperately through the leaves.

It grew supernaturally cold, and she couldn't help but shiver a little. Beneath the cloak, her breath became visible and she began to ache, not in her fingers and toes but in her very soul.

On the opposite bank, flashes of silver light erupted. He stared at them in a morbid fascination, as the dementors closed in on their hapless victims, the Patronuses conjured against them flickering and flashing, only slowing their advance, not stopping them, as the pressed inevitably closer.

The girl was still some distance away, but she was making enough noise now to be heard from the boy's position. Only his obsession kept him from noticing her approach.

She looked back at the girl, who like the boy was transfixed with the scene across the lake. The glimmers of silver light were suddenly extinguished, and the girl shuddered involuntarily, recalling with dread the terrifying chill of the dementors feeding upon her, conjuring up her worst memories…

The boy would never know what it was she had experienced when she had collapsed at his side, the horror of finding herself back in the stands of the Quidditch pitch, looking on helplessly as the one she loved teetered woozily on his broom before slipping off and plummeting towards the earth… how she'd sat there over his unconscious form in the hospital wing, sobbing uncontrollably, certain that she'd lost him, begging him to wake up, to be alright…

"Come on!" muttered the boy, staring about. She turned her attention away from the girl, drawing closer to him so she could hear what it was he was saying. "Where are you? Dad, come on…"

But no one came. The boy raised his head to look at the circle of dementors across the lake. One of them was lowering its hood, leaning in over the figure beneath it for its fatal Kiss…

Realization dawned on the boy. With a start, he flung himself out from behind the bush and pulled out his wand.

"_EXPECTO_ _PATRONUM!_" he yelled.

And out of the end of his wand burst, not a shapeless cloud of mist, but a blinding, dazzling, silver animal. She gazed at it, awed, as did the boy. Galloping silently across the lake, it lowered its head and charged…

Reluctantly, she tore her eyes away from the sight and looked back over her shoulder, where the girl stood, mouth open, enthralled. Later, much later he would tell the girl what it was he had thought of when he'd cast the spell, the happy memory that had summoned forth Prongs for the very first time… the image of herself, racing down the Great Hall towards him, no longer Petrified, screaming at him over the roar of applause that had overtaken the feastgoers as she flung herself around his neck…

Had he happened to tell her right after the fact, the night might have gone quite differently, she mused.

The dementors scattered, the Patronus turned. It cantered back towards the boy over the still surface of the water. He could see now its true form, the mighty antlers that rose from its head, its entire being as radiant as the moon above as it returned to him.

It stopped on the bank. Its hooves made no mark on the soft ground as it stared at him with its large, silver eyes. Slowly, it bowed its head, and the boy realized…

"_Prongs_," he whispered.

The creature vanished as his shaking hand reached out to touch it. He stood there for a moment, hand outstretched.

Meanwhile, the girl had shaken herself back to awareness, and was blushing furiously. Beneath the cloak, she smiled. She knew that the only thought in the girl's head at that moment was of rushing up to the boy and planting her mouth hungrily atop his.

"_What did you do?_" the girl asked fiercely, tugging on the rope around the great beast's neck and dragging it towards the boy, the passion for him that had threatened to overwhelm her channeled into safe, familiar anger. "You said you were only going to keep a lookout!"

"I just saved our lives…" said the boy. "Get behind here—behind this bush—I'll explain."

She and the girl listened to him as he explained what it was that had just happened, described how the man he had thought he had seen had not been his father, but rather himself.

"Did anyone see you?" the girl asked.

"Yes, haven't you been listening? I saw me but I thought I was my dad! It's okay!"

"Harry, I can't believe it… You conjured up a Patronus that drove away all those dementors! That's very, very advanced magic…" The girl was blushing furiously, though the boy didn't seem the notice.

She felt a pang of sympathy for her. She knew that for months, years after this night the girl would lie awake in bed, agonizing over her failure to kiss him when she'd had the chance.

"I knew I could do it this time," said Harry, "because I'd already done it… Does that make sense?"

"I don't know—Harry, look at Snape!"

The two peered around the bush at the other bank, where the Potions professor had regained consciousness, conjuring stretchers and lifting the limp forms before him onto them. A fourth stretcher, no doubt already bearing the red-headed one, was already floating at his side. Then, wand held out in front of him, he moved them away toward the castle.

It was clear, to her at least, that the girl did not want to leave the sudden intimacy that had been created now that they were finally out of danger and alone together behind the bush. But the boy looked to her for guidance and the girl looked at her watch.

"Right, it's nearly time," she said tensely. "We've got forty-five minutes until Dumbledore locks the door to the hospital wing. We've got to rescue Sirius and get back into the ward before anyone realizes we're missing…"

The two began to discuss their plans, and mounting the hippogriff, the two soared into the air, heading for the castle's West Tower, the girl's chance having slipped through her fingers for good.

By the time she arrived at the tower's top by foot, the prisoner's escape had been noticed and wizards were swarming over the place trying to find out what happened, the boy and girl long gone. A twist of the Time-Turner, though, and she had to wait only a few moments before the pair glided up to the window, the girl opening it with a stern "_Alohomora!_"

"How—how—?" asked the prisoner weakly, staring at the hippogriff.

"Get on—there's not much time," said Harry, gripping the beast firmly on either side of his sleek neck to hold him steady.

"You've got to get out of here—the dementors are coming—Macnair's gone to get them."

The prisoner placed a hand on either side of the window frame and heaved his head and shoulders out of it. It was very lucky he was so thin. In seconds, he had managed to fling one leg over the hippogriff's back and pull himself onto it behind the girl.

"Okay, Buckbeak, up!" said the boy, shaking the rope. "Up to the tower—come on!"

And again they flew away from her.

She followed them on foot until they'd all arrived back at the hospital wing, using the Time-Turner whenever she needed to catch up to them. She watched over them constantly, ensuring the pair weren't ambushed after they'd parted ways with the boy's godfather and the hippogriff. No one interfered.

Evidently this wasn't the moment, either.

She'd known tonight had been a longshot, despite what the boy would later tell the girl about the inspiration for his first corporeal Patronus. Admittedly, she could think of other moments that were more likely for him to visit than this one. She'd tried rationalizing it to herself, claiming she was merely moving ahead through the most important moments of their lives in chronological order, but if she were truly honest with herself…

She'd chosen this night because of the dementors. She'd wanted to feel, needed to feel alone and small and pathetic, _craved_ it, the dread chill of their feeding off of her, to feel her worst memory slice her open and bury her in shame and guilt…

"_It… it was _you_… It wasn't… it wasn't supposed to be you! Why was it you?"_

She blinked, forcing away the image of the woman's brown eyes filling with tears, and reached for the Time-Turner. She'd ensure they were safe for tonight, that he wouldn't come for them in their sleep, and then she'd move on to the next candidate on her list. And when she'd found him…

He would _pay_ for what he'd done to her. What he'd done to the boy had been unforgivable, but thanks to his actions she would never, ever forget those eyes, staring at her in pain and anguish…

But as much as her insides still burned with a cold, harsh fury, the encounter with the dementors had reminded her that she wasn't here because of a desire for revenge, or even for the boy's salvation, not entirely.

Simply put, she was here because she had nowhere else to go, no one to turn to after all of the lies had brought her world crashing down.

Stopping him was the only thing she had left to live for.

* * *

She hurried down the first-floor corridor, passing by the many doors on either side for her as she looked for the number her sister-in-law had given her, her shoes making loud clacking noises with each and every step.

She didn't have to look long, as it turned out; up ahead the red-headed woman sat outside one of the rooms, looking small and defeated.

"Oh, Hermione!" she cried, leaping up and rushing to her side.

The two embraced fiercely, and Hermione could feel the smaller woman trembling in her arms.

"How is he?" she asked gently.

"They haven't told me anything," Ginny said, her voice barely a whisper.

The day had not gone as planned. After last's night discussion with Ron, the two had resolved to not delay finding out the cause for Harry's strange behavior any further. Together, the two of them worked out a strategy they'd believed would work. The plan had been for her to be the one to slip into Harry's office, after hours; Ronald would stay there as late as Harry did, and leave with him, keeping him occupied while she conducted her search.

Of course, to avoid drawing suspicion, she'd had to completely go about her normal routine, taking Hugo to the Ministry daycare and heading straight to the second level. There could be no uncharacteristic visits to the Auror Office, no calls or discrete messages sent to or from Ron, nothing that would attract Harry's attention or paranoia.

It had nearly driven her mad.

What made it especially nerve-wracking was the fact that they all worked together on the same floor. Sure, the Auror Office was on the other side of the Ministry from her department, but somewhere down the hall Ron was trying to scope things out, keep tabs on Harry, find out more about that thing that had twisted him so, all while knowing that his wife was planning on breaking into the damn place later that evening and not arouse any suspicions.

She loved her husband, but he wasn't exactly _subtle_.

And because she'd had to remain incommunicado, she hadn't heard anything about what had happened until she'd received the call from Ginny. For the second time in as many days, she had her sister-in-law on the verge of tears on the other end of the line.

"It's Harry," she had said. "He's been taken to St. Mungo's. He's been attacked."

There had been no more details, quite simply because there weren't any details for her to share. The Healers were too busy saving Harry's life, and the Aurors too busy trying to figure out what'd happened, for anyone to tell Ginny anything.

It was only on her way to the hospital, after arranging Hugo to be picked up and watched by Molly and Arthur that Hermione had realized she had no idea where Ron was. Ginny hadn't said anything about him being there with her, and her blood had run cold for a moment as she tried desperately to get someone in the Auror Office to tell her whether her husband had been hurt or even killed.

As it turned out, there had been a request for aid from the Irish Ministry of Magic, a Fomorian uprising, and Harry, apparently tired of Ron's less-than-understated attempts to keep an eye on him, had sent him to head the operation.

The knowledge that her husband was away battling against giants in Ireland relieved her more than it would under most circumstances. He'd faced worse things before, and had always returned to her in one piece. She was still worried for him, but right now Harry and Ginny needed her.

Her arms still clutched around her shaken sister-in-law, she wondered when Ron would arrive. She knew that the moment he learned of what had befallen Harry, he would rush to their side as soon as he possibly could. When it came down to it, Ronald had always been there for his friends when they truly needed him.

_With one glaring exception_, a nasty part of her thought, and she was immediately ashamed of herself for it.

The two sat waiting for nearly an hour outside the room in which Harry lay. They did not speak much. Neither had the energy to make small talk, or speculate on what had happened to him. They both knew the other was thinking the worst, and neither wanted another to confirm their fears. Instead, Hermione held Ginny's hand tightly in her own, pouring all her love and support through the simple gesture. Together, they waited.

Eventually, the door opened and a Healer approached them. They looked up at him, eyes wide with fear.

"What's happened to my husband?" Ginny asked, her voice taut.

"From the description of the eyewitnesses who brought your husband to us," the Healer told her gently, "he was assaulted by at least three dementors."

"Dementors?" Ginny asked dazedly.

The Ministry had had the dementors on the run for years, now, Hermione knew, thanks in large part to Harry's own efforts. How could this be?

"Yes. They overpowered him, and attempted to perform the Dementor's Kiss. He was fortunate that there were quick-thinking wizards in the vicinity to come to his rescue."

"That doesn't make any sense," Hermione said, shaking her head. "Harry has the most powerful corporeal Patronus I have ever seen. He's driven away dozens of dementors before. How could only three do this to him?"

"He's been acting strangely lately," Ginny told him, clearly reluctant to discuss her marital problems but willing to disclose everything that might help heal Harry. "Moody, stressed out, working longer hours. And drinking… a lot. Could that have caused the dementors to overpower him?"

The Healer nodded slowly. "The emotional state of the victim plays a major role in the feeding of a dementor. If your husband was feeling particularly vulnerable, emotionally, it's possible his magic might have failed him before he was able to conjure a Patronus."

A second, grimmer theory occurred to Hermione, though she didn't say anything aloud for Ginny's sake.

_He might not have had any happy memories to focus on to cast the Patronus charm with…_

What had _happened_ to him?

"He's resting now," the Healer told them. "His physical injuries were only minor, and have been repaired. You can see him now, if you like."

He let them past and they hurried to Harry's side. He lay there, in his hospital bed, fast asleep. It was not a peaceful sleep. His brow was covered in sweat, and his face was all scrunched up, as if he were scowling at something in his dreams.

Ginny sat down immediately, leaning forward instinctively to take his hand in her own. Kissing his knuckles gently, she looked up at the Healer.

"When will he be awake?"

The Healer did not reply, not right away, and Hermione tore her eyes from Harry to look back at him, casting his eyes down at the floor awkwardly.

When he did speak, his voice was apologetic, somber. "As I said before, there's nothing physically wrong with him…"

"_But?_" Hermione demanded sharply.

"He hasn't responded to any of our attempts to wake him and assess his status," he answered. "There was some fear that the dementors were indeed able to administrate the Kiss…"

Ginny let out moan, a pitiable sound somewhere in between a wail and a sob.

"…but his soul is most definitely intact, we're sure of that," the Healer hurriedly continued. "We don't know yet why he refuses to wake. The best we can say right now is that he doesn't yet want to."

Hermione stared at him, then at Harry. She felt her fear building, a rising wave of despair and anxiety that made her feel nauseous.

Abruptly it was replaced with rage. She wanted to scream at him, shake him, force him to wake just so she could slap him for making her and Ginny go through this.

But she realized just as abruptly that her anger was misdirected. It wasn't Harry's fault. To have been made to feel as if there was nothing in the world worth waking for, to have lost all joy to such an extent that one had nothing left to conjure a Patronus with…

It was that _thing_, the artifact in his office, she was sure of it. It had done this to him, drained the joy out of him, hurt him in a way she couldn't begin to fathom.

It made her heart break.

But Harry was here, now. And that _thing_ was in his office, unguarded. And she could go there this very moment and destroy it, once and for all, save him, bring him back to her.

_Bring him back to _Ginny_ and me_, she corrected herself.

"There's something else," the Healer said, and she shook herself out of her thoughts and turned to listen again.

"He's—said—some things, in his sleep, shown some of the warning signs. He's showing all the classical symptoms of having been afflicted with a Memory Charm. All we've been able to tell so far is that it was performed quite some time ago, years ago, most likely, and that it was quite potent."

"A—a Memory Charm?" she asked dumbly.

"Harry's been in St. Mungo's tons of times before," said Ginny severely. "Why hasn't anyone realized this before?"

"Probably because he's only begun to fight it recently," said the Healer. "It's quite likely that this is the cause of your husband's recent… odd behavior."

Hermione just looked at him, unable to even speak.

"Will you be able to remove it?" Ginny asked him.

"None of our potions have had any effect so far," he answered. "To be perfectly honest… I'm not sure. The fact that it was cast so long ago, and was so powerful and precise… I've never seen a memory-altering spell this powerful before, in all my years at St. Mungo's, ma'am."

Hermione took a seat next to Harry, on the other side of Ginny. She couldn't stand up straight right now, not after all of this. She looked down at his sleeping figure, his messy, black hair falling down over his scar in a way that reminded her intensely of the boy she had first met all those years ago on the Hogwarts Express.

"We'll be transferring him to the Spell Damage ward tomorrow morning," the Healer was telling Ginny. "I've contacted a colleague of mine, an expert on this sort of thing, he'll be here later this evening to consult…"

Hermione didn't really hear anything after that. The rage had returned.

Who could have done such a thing to him? Who could cast a Memory Charm so powerful that Harry's Healer had never seen its like before? She had an absurd vision of Gilderoy Lockheart assaulting Harry in a dark alley somewhere, Ron and Harry had told her that Memory Charms had always been the old fraud's specialty…

She blinked, forcing the image out of her head. The more important question, she realized, was _why_. Why perform a Memory Charm on Harry? What could they have wanted to conceal from him so badly that they would have been willing to tear up his mind to hide it? Answer that question, she knew, and you would learn who had performed the deed.

Eventually, the Healer left the room, leaving them with him. Neither woman spoke, just sitting there, holding his hands, willing him to wake from this nightmare.

His lips moved, and she found that if she listened closely she could make it out what he was muttering.

"_Ginny… Ginny… come back to me…_"

For some reason, that only made her feel worse. She'd half-believed, no, _deluded_ herself into thinking that it would be her name he cried out when he was at his most vulnerable…

_Quit acting like you're sixteen again, Granger_, said a part of her.

_It's Weasley, now_, she replied, shakily.

_Then act like it_.


	5. Chapter IV

**Chapter IV**

**The Dance / A Diagnosis**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. If I did, I… I would mismanage him horribly, and people would beg to have J. K. Rowling back at the helm. Let's be grateful things are the way they are, Ron/Hermione and Harry/Ginny notwithstanding.

**Author's Note:** I have to say, this chapter holds a special place in my heart. It's definitely my favorite so far, not so much because of my own writing but because of all the scenes I got to relive in researching it. I hope you're as fond of it as I am!

**Soundtrack Note: **Potter Waltz from the Goblet of Fire soundtrack.

* * *

"Time flies like an arrow, fruit flies like a banana."

-Groucho Marx

The boy had his mouth open again.

The girl twirled around the Bulgarian again, the periwinkle hem of her dress spinning around her as she laughed. She looked happy.

The boy looked miserable. He would stare after the girl, a pained expression on his face, and when that became too much to bear, he would look for the Ravenclaw girl, dancing with the Hufflepuff champion, the one who had not much longer on this Earth.

Sitting beside him in the corner was his red-headed friend, who prattled on, and on, and on about giants, and with his mood already worsened by affairs of the heart, the boy looked like he wanted to start flinging incendiary spells around the hall.

Meanwhile, the Death Eater disguised as a professor leaned against the wall, flask in hand, awkwardly swaying back and forth the music, humming along to it gruffly, ensuring that the alarmed students dancing near him kept a wide berth. He appeared to be gazing around the hall, the ever-watchful chaperone, but to anyone who knew what to look for, his enchanted blue eye always swung around to stare on the boy.

It had taken her quite some time to figure out a way around the imposter. Wearing the Auror's eye as he did, he could see right through her invisibility cloak, and would no doubt investigate with extreme prejudice—no one that could interfere with his plans for the boy could be allowed to live.

But tonight presented her with a unique opportunity to get close to the boy and the girl without even needing the cloak. It had required much time and some complicated calculations, but she was able to incorporate multiple hairs into the Polyjuice Potion she'd decided to brew. The end result, when enhanced with conjured robes that matched those of the Beauxbatons girls exactly, made her look like a student of that school, without resembling any one of them in particular; she didn't want to have to worry about encountering the individual she was impersonating. As soon as she had brewed enough for the night, she strolled up to the nearest Durmstrang boy, and asked him to the ball.

Once within the hall, she promptly ditched her date, only looking for dancing partners insomuch as she needed to get closer to the boy and the girl. Right now she was dancing with a pudgy Hufflepuff boy with bad breath. She'd dressed rather plainly, not wanting to draw unwanted attention to herself, a simple white dress that could have been worn by any of the girls; the Hogwarts students would assume she was from Beauxbatons, and the Beauxbatons girls would assume she attended Hogwarts. The Auror's eye was a potent magical device, but in this form, she could hide in plain sight, just has the Death Eater had. She found the irony to be quite satisfying.

Across the room, the red-headed friend excused himself and got up, heading for the doors of the hall. She assumed he was off to the toilet.

Peering around the Hufflepuff, she watched the boy. His gaze was intense, his face turning red. The girl had nestled her head on the Bulgarians shoulder as the two danced, and the boy couldn't take his eyes off of her. It was obvious; he was jealous.

It was rather cute of him, she thought. Yes, the Bulgarian was attractive, and a gentleman, and most importantly he had been the first to ever show any interest in the girl in that way. But there had honestly never been anything for the boy to be jealous of. She didn't share with the Bulgarian what she shared with the boy, and the boy had so much more of those qualities that the girl was really interested in. His mind, bright and sensitive and inquisitive, his character, loyal and kind and full of valor, and his _eyes_, green and piercing and electric…

If he had bothered to ask the girl to the ball, well, she never would have spared the Bulgarian a second glance.

The Weird Sisters began finishing up the song, and the boy downed the rest of his Butterbeer and stood up. With his eyes set in grim determination, he strode across the dance floor, marching straight up to the two of them.

"May I cut in?" he asked stiffly as the next song began to play.

The Bulgarian's face looked as if he had been forced to swallow a lemon. Still, he could not very well refuse, given the occasion. "Ov corse," he nodded grimly, and he had the nerve to kiss the girl's hand in front of the boy. "I vill see you later," he told her, his eyes flaring at the boy as he moved towards the refreshments.

She steered the Hufflepuff boy around the other couples so she could get a better view of the two as the girl stepped up to the boy, wide-eyed, and placed her hands around his shoulders while he rested her hands on her hips. The boy looked particularly awkward as he realized that the next dance would be to a slow song.

She reached for her side and gripped her wand through the fabric of her dress, whispering a quick Supersensory Charm upon herself. The noise became deafening, but if she closed her eyes and focused, she could tune out most of it and listen to just the boy and girl.

Both their heartbeats were fast, wild. The girl because of who it was that held her in his arms, and the boy because… Did he feel the same way? Or had that come later?

"I like your teeth," he whispered in the girl's ear. "They really look nice, I can't believed I hadn't noticed before."

The girl blushed furiously. "Thanks," she murmured.

Eyes closed, and pressed up against the Hufflepuff boy, she smiled involuntarily. Until he stepped on her foot. She glared at him, and attempted to keep her eyes open to avoid a repeat of the incident while still listening in on the boy and girl.

"I'm sorry Ron's being such a git," he said, raising his voice to be heard over the music. "I think he was just shocked, to see you tonight, looking so… so…"

"Yes?" the girl said, cocking her head and looking at him curiously.

"Beautiful," he told her simply.

The girl leaned her head on his shoulder, afraid he'd see the look on her face. With her eyes now open, however, she could see her face clearly, flushed pink with excitement, eyes twinkling ecstatically, her mouth open in an irrepressible smile…

_Her teeth really are much nicer_, she thought.

The girl shook her head and pulled back so she could look at him again. Her face a stern mask, she told him, in her best Professor McGonagall voice, "Well it's his own fault, for not asking me sooner. And he's only surprised because he didn't think I could look this nice anyway!"

The boy blushed, and looked away. "You're right about him not asking you sooner. But about being surprised… it's not entirely his fault, 'Mione."

She shot him a look, but he only smiled. "You've always been beautiful," he told her seriously, and the girl could see in his eyes that he meant it. "But tonight… even I can't believe how amazing you look tonight. You're breathtaking."

The girl didn't say anything, just buried her face in his shoulder again so that he wouldn't see her face as she tried to process what he had said, wondering if she'd heard him properly over the music.

She knew that the girl was going through a difficult period in her relationship between her two best friends, one that was only going to get more difficult in the years to come. Her feelings for the boy were confusing to her, painful even, and she didn't dare bring it up with him for fear he did not feel the same way. At the same time, she began to see their red-headed friend as more than just another member of the trio. The boy was so burdened, so out of her league, so in need of her friendship and support that she felt guilty for feeling about him the way that she did, and the redhead… he was funny, and brutally honest, and clueless, in an endearing sort of way, and _sweet_, when he didn't make her want to shout at him and berate him for being such an ass…

The girl had always felt that the boy would never return her affections, not in the same way, not when he could have any witch he wanted, and it sometimes seemed as if the redhead was the only other one who paid her any heed at all… but every once in a while the boy would say something like _this_ and reduce her to a nervous wreck trying to parse out the meaning of his words.

The two swayed closer together, and with the Supersensory Charm enhancing her vision as well as her hearing, she could see the boy's nostrils flaring, mere centimeters from the girl's hair. Better to look at them then at the Hufflepuff boy, whose pores were distressingly large now that her visual acuity had been enhanced…

The girl still had her head buried in the boy's shoulder, not trusting herself to avoid giving her feelings for him away as soon as she looked at him. Likewise, the boy looked terribly embarrassed, as if he had regretted saying as much as he had.

The song continued and as the two rocked back and forth slowly, their bodies moved closer together, until they were pressed flush against one another, not an inch of space between them. From her vantage point, it didn't look as if either of them had initiated the increased closeness. Subconsciously, they both wanted as little distance between them as possible.

By now the girl had lifted her head, and leaned forward so that her forehead rested against the boy's, her brown eyes starring into green ones.

_She should've just kissed him and gotten it over with_, she mused, attempting to ignore the sound of the sweat sliding down the Hufflepuff's forehead and neck.

The boy's smile was brilliant. He looked so… _content_, with her arms wrapped around him, as if this was all that he needed, just them, together, nothing else.

The girl's smile was a little sadder. She'd realized that the boy would not be kissing her, that he'd just wanted to dance with a friend and maybe cheer her up a little after the argument she'd had earlier with the red-headed one. As the song gradually came to a close, she was unable to hide the disappointment in her eyes from him, and startled, he opened his mouth, about to ask her what was wrong…

"Herm-own-ninny?"

The damned Bulgarian was back. He did not looked pleased with the physical proximity of the two friends. Embarrassed, the girl broke away as if burned, while the boy just stood there, bewildered. The girl took the Durmstrang champion's hand and led him away, as the Weird Sisters kicked up a more upbeat, faster-paced song.

Gratefully, she canceled the Supersensory Charm and bailed on her dance partner as well, taking up a position along the wall. She was covered in sweat, and she was uncomfortably certain that most of it had been his.

Making his way back to the table, the boy reached it just as the redheaded friend returned. The two sat and talked for the rest of the evening, and while the redhead would stare at the girl unabashedly, a scowl on his face, the boy was unable even to look at her, averting his eyes whenever she threatened to pass through his line of sight.

He didn't ogle the Ravenclaw girl for the rest of the evening either, she noticed. When he did catch sight of her, laughing at something the Hufflepuff champion had just said, he no longer seemed distracted or bothered by the two of them.

But he couldn't bring himself to look at the girl for the rest of the night.

When the band finished playing at midnight, everyone gave them a last, loud round of applause and started to wend their way into the entrance hall. Many people were expressing the wish that the ball could have gone on longer, but both the boy and the girl looked eager to be done with it.

She swept after them, watching the girl bid the Bulgarian farewell without so much as a kiss on the cheek, sweeping past the boy and the redhead on the staircase. Unable to look at the boy herself, the girl settled for glaring at the redhead and departed for the common room.

She hung back, eavesdropping on the conversation the boy had with the Hufflepuff champion, who gave him the clue he needed to solve the golden egg puzzle, then followed him as he too headed up to the seventh floor and the portrait of the Fat Lady.

Instead of following him in, however, she went to recover the Time-Turner and invisibility cloak from the empty classroom she'd hidden them in. She'd remain with him for the night again, to insure that he wasn't assaulted in his sleep, but once again she doubted that she'd chosen the right moment. He wouldn't have gone after him at a crowded ball, and the two would not be together again this night…

It was always the same mistake, she mused, choosing moments that had been of greater importance to the girl than the boy. No, next time she'd go somewhere that would have been one of the most important nights of _his_ life…

She vanished the leftover Polyjuice Potion and disappeared beneath the cloak, reminding herself to pay attention to how she grew and changed beneath it as the shape-shifting brew she'd already ingested gradually wore off.

Her hand reached for the Time-Turner, turning it back so that she could follow the boy into the common room and his dormitory. And come morning, she would be moving on ahead.

She knew where to look next. She should have thought of it before, really. Though there had been countless moments the boy and the girl had spent together, they all revolved a few critical hubs, moments of such great importance that they came to mind instantly, literally changing the course of their lives. It was to one of those moments that he would have traveled.

And few nights had been more important in the lives of the boy _or _the girl than the night he had first told her he'd loved her. The night his godfather had died…

* * *

They sat on either side of him in silence. Occasionally he would moan or mutter things in his sleep, his voice barely audible even in the complete quiet of the hospital room.

She had never felt this helpless in her entire life. She wallowed in the feeling, hating herself for being so completely useless, so completely unable to do a damned thing to make Harry better.

She had the sudden, powerful desire to see her husband, to have Ron walk in the door and take her into his arms and kiss all the fear and helplessness away…

But a part of her knew that the _real_ reason she wanted him here was so that she wouldn't be alone with Harry and Ginny. So that she would have something to look at other than his wife holding back tears as she sat at his side, praying desperately. So that she wouldn't have to wonder what she would do if their positions were reversed, if _she_ were Harry's wife and had to see him lying there in that bed…

She shook her head, startled. She had meant, if their positions were reversed and _Ron _was lying in that bed and Harry was off in Ireland fighting giants.

But she knew, deep down, that that wasn't what she had meant at all.

Harry's lips started moving again. She needed to do _something_ to help, even if it meant straining to hear what it was he was saying so she could understand what it was he was experiencing. So she listened, hoping to uncover some clues, enough information to make it all make sense, solve the mystery so she could make Harry well again, so that they could all return to their normal lives.

His words weren't audible, but his lips kept forming the same words over and over again, and it wasn't too difficult to figure out what it was he was saying.

"_I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry…_"

What had he to be sorry for? None of this was his fault.

She didn't know why, exactly, couldn't have put the feeling into words, even, but somehow, she knew it was hers.

Ginny was holding one of Harry's hands tightly between both of hers, as if afraid that if she let go he might slip away and not come back. Hermione wasn't sure what drove her to grab his other hand and squeeze it tightly in her own, not exactly; she told herself that she was just being there for a friend, in the only way possible, lending him her support the way she'd lent it to Ginny by holding her hand in the corridor more than an hour ago.

The moment her skin touched his, Harry began to mutter, no longer just moving his lips silently, but actually speaking audible words.

"_It wasn't a lie, it wasn't a lie_…_ it can't have all been a lie_…"

"Harry?" Ginny was staring at her husband. "What is he talking about?"

Hermione just shook her head, her mouth hanging open, unable to say anything. She suddenly felt very, very wrong. She slipped her hands out of Harry's, drawing them back quickly as if she'd been burned.

"_Hermione, wait, don't go_…"

Ginny stared at her.

Hermione could hear the pain and abandonment in his voice, and instantly felt revulsion. Not for him, but for herself. She shouldn't be here, she told herself. She could do nothing for Harry right now, and all that her presence here was accomplishing was to drag up old feelings that were better left buried…

There came a knock on the doorframe at that moment, and an old Indian wizard entered the room, coffee-colored eyes staring ahead relentlessly over a rather severe looking nose and a thick, grey beard.

"I am Healer Chatterjee," he told them, his voice heavily accented and ancient-sounding. "I would like to take a look at your husband," he said, looking directly at Hermione.

Startled, she turned and looked at Ginny, who was still staring at her after Harry's last words. The redhead, not breaking her eye-contact with her sister-in-law, spoke.

"Please, anything you can do to help."

The Healer nodded and moved to Harry's side. Hermione stood up, taking several steps back to give him room to examine his patient. A part of her wanted very, very badly to turn and flee the room, to go get Hugo from Arthur and Molly and hold him tight and smother him with kisses.

But she couldn't leave yet, wouldn't forgive herself if she left without finding out more about Harry's condition. Chatterjee was an expert on memory magic, called in to consult on a possible treatment. If anyone could find out how to help Harry, it would be him. She needed the Healer to help him, needed him to get better. She wasn't sure what she would do if he didn't get better.

And when it _did _come time to leave, it was not to the Burrow that she would be going.

There was no one in Harry's office right now.

_Something_ had caused all of this, something dark, something dangerous.

She would end it.

Chatterjee made an "Mmm-hmm" noise as he held his wand to Harry's temple.

"Yes, yes, yes yes yes," he said, nodding sagely.

"What is it?"

"This is indeed a very potent Memory Charm," said the Healer. "Possibly the strongest I have ever seen."

"Who could perform such a spell?" Ginny asked.

"I can count on one hand the number of wizards I know that could cast a charm this strong," said Chatterjee. "To my knowledge, none of them have ever met your husband, with the exception of the late Albus Dumbledore."

_Dumbledore?_

She refused to believe it.

Chatterjee had them describe in great detail Harry's behavior over the last several weeks for him. He nodded in understanding as they told him about the way he'd been acting. Wanting to give him whatever piece of information might help Harry, Hermione told him everything, revealing to Ginny for the first time the way Harry had looked at her the night he had first started behaving oddly.

"And after that it was like he couldn't look at me at all," she told him.

The Healer nodded. Turning, he summoned a large stone bowl, encircled in runes. To Hermione's surprise, she found that several of them she did not recognize. Those she did, however, allowed her to understand the basin's purpose.

"That's the bindrune for 'Memory'," she said softly. "That's a Pensieve."

"Indeed. In my line of work, it is useful not only as a device for contemplation but as a diagnostic tool as well. With your permission?"

Ginny nodded her assent, and the old man touched his wand to Harry's temple again. Slowly, he withdrew it, a strand of wafting silver thought trailing after it. He placed it into the bowl, and then repeated the process several times until the empty bowl had been filled with a cloud of gleaming silver memories.

"I can't extract the modified memory, of course, but I have been able to identify others that are all associated with it in his mind. In some way, they all have something to do with what was erased. Viewing them may reveal a pattern, and give us a vague idea of what was tampered with."

He stirred the Pensieve briefly with his wand, then withdrew it and tapped the surface of its contents gently.

Up from it rose the image of a young Harry Potter in miniature, dressed in plain Muggle clothes. He was looking at something in what appeared to be great expectation.

"_Oh, are you doing magic?_" came a voice from the Pensieve. "_Let's see it, then._"

Hermione went as pale as a sheet.

The ghostly silver image of an eleven year old Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley rose from the bowl, sitting next to Harry in the train compartment they had first met in on the Hogwarts Express like tiny, animated statues of silver. A miniature Neville Longbotton stood at the door of the compartment. All were looking at Ron expectantly.

"_Er—all right._"

The memory of Ron cleared its throat and waved its wand.

"_Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow_,

_Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow_."

The tiny rat in the memory's hands remained asleep and unchanged.

"_Are you sure that's a real spell?_" said Hermione's younger self. "_Well, it's not very good, is it? I've tried a few simple spells just for practice and it's all worked for me. Nobody in my family's magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it's the very best school of witchcraft there is, I've heard…_"

The memory collapsed into the Pensieve, and Chatterjee tapped it again, drawing up another strand of thought into coherent shape.

A very, very irritated Hermione glared at them, bushy-haired and buck-toothed. "_I hope you're pleased with yourselves. We could all have been killed — or worse, expelled. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to bed_."

This memory, too, collapsed into the bowl, only to be replaced by another.

A skeptical looking Ron and Harry stood in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, looking down at a tiny silver Hermione who was flipping through a large book, which she snapped shut.

"_Well, if you two are going to chicken out, fine. I don't want to break rules, you know. I think threatening Muggle-borns is far worse than brewing up a difficult potion. But if you don't want to find out if it's Malfoy, I'll go straight to Madam Pince now and hand the book back in—_"

"_I never thought I'd see the day when you'd be persuading us to break rules,"_ said the image of Ron. "_All right, we'll do it. But not toenails, okay?_"

Hermione felt a wave of dread wash through her as an older, more mature version of herself rose once more from the Pensieve, accompanied by a replica of Horace Slughorn, their one time Potions master at Hogwarts.

"_It's Amortentia!_" the memory of Hermione called out, looking down at a bubbling cauldron. "_It's_ _the most powerful love potion in the world!_"

"_Quite right! You recognized it, I suppose, by its distinctive mother-of-pearl sheen?_" Slughorn asked.

"_And the steam rising in characteristic spirals,"_ said the memory enthusiastically, "_and it's supposed to smell differently to each of us, according to what attracts us, and I can smell freshly mown grass and new parchment and_—"

She cut off suddenly, blushing furiously.

"_May I ask your name, my dear?_" said the memory of Slughorn, ignoring the other's embarrassment.

"_Hermione Granger, sir._"

"_Granger? Granger? Can you possibly be related to Hector Dagworth-Granger, who founded the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers?_"

"_No, I don't think so, sir. I'm Muggle-born, you see_."

"_Oho!_ 'One of my best friends is Muggle-born, and she's the best in our year!' _I'm assuming this is the very friend of whom you spoke, Harry?_"

"_Yes, sir_," came Harry's voice, though his duplicate did not rise up out of the bowl.

"_Well, well, take twenty well-earned points for Gryffindor, Miss Granger_," said Slughorn's doppelganger genially.

The silver girl turned and looked right at them, a radiant expression on her face. "_Did you really tell him I'm the best in the year? Oh, Harry!_"

The memory lost cohesion and dropped into the bowl. Chatterjee did not stir it up again. When he spoke, his voice gave no indication that he was aware of or cared in the slightest about the intense uncomfortableness that had settled about the room.

"Well, we now know the topic of the afflicted memory," he said calmly.

Ginny stared at Hermione, her expression unreadable.

"I would like to attempt a second diagnostic test. Mrs. Potter?"

His voice made the red-headed woman reel, snapping her out of whatever thoughts she had been thinking. "Yes, do whatever you need to do."

The old Healer vanished the Pensieve and summoned a medical bag, through which he began going through.

"Something caused Mr. Potter to begin fighting the Memory Charm," he explained. "Even if it was on a subconscious level, he realized something was missing or had been modified, and reacted with aversion to any triggers of the target memory."

With a chill, Hermione realized that she was the trigger he was referring to.

"The question is, what caused him to become aware that his memories were not accurate? I wish to administer a potion to Mr. Potter that may allow us to question him, so that we may formulate an effective treatment."

"You have a potion that will wake him?" asked Ginny, shakily.

Chatterjee shook his head. "Nothing so miraculous, I'm afraid." He removed a small stoppered bottle from the bag and a longer, more ornate bottle. Holding up the first, he said, "This potion is a unique mixture that I have developed for patients rendered catatonic by… traumatic memories. While it will briefly render him lucid enough to speak to us, it cannot make him wake."

"What is it?"

Vanishing the bag, he removed the stopper from the first bottle. Hermione could immediately detect the smell of frankincense. "A restorative draught mixed with a memory enhancing potion and a powerful truth serum," he told them.

"You want to give Harry Veritaserum?" Hermione asked him.

"Not quite. The truth serum in this potion is not intended for interrogations, as is Veritaserum, but was designed for use in therapy, allowing the recipient to be honest with _themselves_. It is quite useful for having patients confront unpleasant or traumatic memories."

"But it won't restore Harry's lost memories?"

"I'm afraid not, Mrs. Potter," the Healer told Ginny. "The Memory Charm is too potent to be undone by a simple potion, or even a complicated potion such as this one. However, it is possible that in fighting the Memory Charm he may have restored portions of the afflicted memory himself. This potion will allow us to speak to your husband and hear his responses. And it will only work once. We need to know what caused him to begin resisting the charm, and also what, if anything, he's remembered."

The old man paused for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was grave. "Given the ordeal he has been through, it is _very_ likely that whatever memories he has uncovered are… disturbing, to say the least. It may be necessary for us to administer a Calming Draught," he said, indicating the other bottle.

Ginny nodded fearfully.

"There is also a chance that in speaking with him we _may_ be able to coax him out of the coma," he told them. "I make no promises, though. It all depends on how distressing the lost memories are. Given his obvious suffering, I am not overly optimistic."

"Give him the potion," Ginny said firmly.

"As you wish," replied Chatterjee. He inhaled deeply from the open bottle, then closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he turned and gently opened Harry's mouth before tipping the potion down his throat. He dispensed it slowly, giving time for the last dash to be swallowed before pouring the next gulp. Finally, the bottle was emptied and Chatterjee stepped back.

"It should not be very long, now," he told them.

They waited for several moments. Hermione could see no change in Harry's appearance—his breathing rate did not change, his face did not relax, he did not open his eyes.

"Please, Harry," she whispered. "Give us a sign."

Harry snapped bolt upright in bed, his eye wide open, his face twisted into an expression of horror. He gasped, and stared straight ahead, his eyes gazing sightlessly into space. He looked as if he was experiencing a terrible agony.

"The Calming Draught!" cried Hermione. Immediately Chatterjee grasped Harry by the jaw, forcing the tip of the bottle into his mouth and angling it so its contents slid down his throat. Harry gave him no resistance. A few moments later, his eyes drooped, and he gently slid back down onto the bed with a sigh.

Newly relaxed, Harry's eyes focused on Hermione. It was the same intense, alien gaze he had fixated on her with on the night that this had all begun.

Ginny began to softly cry.

"Mr. Potter," called the Healer. "I am Healer Chatterjee. You are at St. Mungo's. You were attacked by dementors. Do you remember?"

"I remember," said Harry, his voice coming out in a dull monotone. His gaze never left Hermione.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"I was going to see Aberforth Dumbledore in Hogsmeade," came the reply.

"Why?" asked Hermione, unable to help herself.

"I needed help repairing a magical item," he said mechanically. "I knew Aberforth had purchased items from Mundungus Fletcher in the past. I needed to see about having him contact him for me."

"Why did you need Mundungus?"

"The repairs weren't going well, and he has more criminal contacts than anyone I've ever met in the wizarding world. I was hoping he could find me an artisan who would make the repairs for me, no questions asked."

"What is it you were repairing? Is it a dark artifact?" asked Hermione.

Harry did not reply. He only stared at her.

"It's what's responsible for this whole thing, isn't it?" she demanded.

The silent stare was the only answer he gave her.

Chatterjee took charge. "What happened in your encounter with the dementors?"

Harry shuddered, though when he spoke, his voice was emotionless. "They showed me my worst memory, and it was so bad I blacked out before I could conjure a Patronus."

"Your parent's deaths?" asked Ginny, wiping away her tears.

"No. They showed me something much worse."

"What?" asked Chatterjee.

"The truth."

"We won't be able to question him for very long," the Healer told Ginny and Hermione. "We need to find out more about the Memory Charm. Mr. Potter, a powerful Memory Charm has been placed upon you. We believe you have been fighting against it recently. Is this true?"

"Yes," whispered Harry. "I've been trying to remember."

"What was it that made you realize that something was wrong?" Chatterjee asked him.

"It was what I saw in the artifact. That's what the dementors showed me when they attacked me in Hogsmeade."

"What did you see, Harry?" asked Ginny.

He did not answer.

"Harry… _please_," begged Hermione. "I need you to tell us."

"It… it was _you_…" Harry said suddenly, his voice no longer impassive. He sounded anguished. "It wasn't… it wasn't supposed to be you! _Why was it you?_"


	6. Chapter V

**Chapter V**

**Broken Promises / The Revelation**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. And in Soviet Russia, Harry Potter doesn't own me.

**Author's Note:** Heh, yeah, accidentally left out the section breaks in the last chapter. Not to worry, it's fixed now and I promise to pay more attention this time. :-)

Ah, here we go! We're almost to the crux of it, guys, the story's halfway point will be in about a chapter or three. Thank you for your patience, and enjoy the update… I promise, anything not answered in this chapter will be covered in the next one (well, maybe the next two, but I'm doing my best!).

Oh, and it seems my stats on this fic have frozen. It shows I've gotten 0 hits on Chapter IV, even when I've gotten plenty of reviews for it. Here's hoping a new update dislodges the pipes. Thanks for reading and reviewing!

**Soundtrack Note: **The Hall of Prophecy, from the Order of the Phoenix soundtrack.

* * *

"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover."

-Mark Twain

She'd regretted coming here almost immediately. She'd forgotten how horrific the night had been.

"HERMIONE!" the boy roared, falling to his knees beside her crumpled form.

The Death Eater kicked hard at the Longbottom boy's head as he crawled towards his friends, his wand held up in front of him. The blow snapped his wand in two and connected with his face, causing him to give a howl of pain and twist back clutching his nose.

The boy spun around, his own wand held high, and saw that the Death Eater had his wand pointed directly at him, his mask tossed aside, revealing a twisted, sinister grin.

With his free hand, the Death Eater pointed at the small glass orb in the boy's hand, then to himself, and then to the girl. The message was clear. _Give me the prophecy, or you get the same as her_…

The _rage _she saw in the boy's eyes made it clear he didn't give a _damn_ about his own safety anymore. "Like you won't kill us all the moment I hand it over anyway!" he snapped.

"Whaddever you do, Harry," said the other boy fiercely from under the desk, lowering his hands to show a clearly broken nose and blood pouring down his mouth and chin, "don'd gib it to him!"

There came a crashing noise from the open doorway, and the Death Eater looked over his shoulder, his mouth dropping open in horror and revulsion.

In the doorframe stood a full-grown wizard, clad in the same black robes as the Death Eater, his skull disproportionately small in comparison to the frame of his body. For atop his shoulders sat the screaming, bawling head of an infant.

The boy struck hard and fast. "_PETRIFICUS TOTALUS!_" The two Death Eaters toppled to the floor, rigid as boards and unable to move an inch.

He immediately turned his attention to the girl, shaking her shoulder. "Hermione, Hermione, wake up…" His voice caught, desperate and pleading.

He shook her harder, frantically, his expression one of horror and desolation. He was saying something, whispering it again and again under his breath, and again she cast the Supersensory Charm just so that she could make it out.

"_Don't let her be dead, don't let her be dead, it's my fault if she's dead_…"

"Whaddid he do to her?" said the other boy, crawling out from under the desk again to kneel at her other side, blood streaming from his rapidly swelling nose.

"I dunno…"

He groped for Hermione's wrist. "Dat's a pulse, Harry, I'b sure id is…"

The boy looked so relieved she thought he might swoon. "She's alive?"

"Yeah, I dink so…"

She could see the boy's mind begin to race, thinking furiously as he tried to find a way to get the girl out of here safely, get her some help.

"Neville, we're not far from the exit," he whispered. "We're right next to that circular room… If we can just get you across it and find the right door before any more Death Eaters come, I'll bet you can get Hermione up the corridor and into the lift… Then you could find someone… Raise the alarm…"

"And whad are you going do do?" said his companion, mopping his bleeding nose with his sleeve and frowning at the boy.

"I've got to find the others," he replied.

"Well, I'b going do find dem wid you," said the other firmly.

"But Hermione—"

"We'll dake her wid us. I'll carry her—you're bedder at fighding dem dan I ab—"

He stood up and seized one of the girl's arms, glaring at the boy, who hesitated, wanting only to get her out of here as soon as possible, then grabbed the other and helped hoist her limp form over the Longbottom boy's shoulders.

"Wait," said the boy, snatching up the girl's wand from the floor and shoving it into the other's hand, "you'd better take this…"

"My gran's going do kill be," said the other boy thickly, blood spattering from his nose as he spoke, kicking aside the broken fragments of his own wand as they walked slowly toward the door. "Dat was by dad's old wand…"

She followed after them, her heart aching for the boy as they reached the room in which the other students had sought refuge. She knew they would all make it out in one piece. What she hadn't seen before was how _determined_ the boy was to save them all. Oh, she had known, of course, that was who he was, after all, but never before had she _seen_ his face like this… He looked like a caged animal as he lead them all towards the exit, desperate, eyes flickering every which way as he tried to figure a way out of it all, get his friends to safety…

"_There they are!_" screamed the bitch, and again the battle raged, Stunning Spells rocketing across the hall and suddenly everything was happening at once, as if she'd sped up history with the Time-Turner, even though she hadn't even _touched _it…

She saw the boy rescue his red-headed friend from the vengeful brains.

She saw him run, trying to lead the Death Eaters away from all of his friends, thinking that even if he died, at least they would all be safe…

She saw the boy surrounded by them, desperate enough to even offer up the prophecy if it would save the lives of the others.

She saw the Longbottom boy stand by him in his most hopeless moment, and she saw the orb shatter as the Order arrived, keeping the Death Eaters occupied while they ran and saving the two from certain death.

And she saw the bitch when she struck his godfather in the chest with a spell, causing him to tumble back through the veil shielding the mysterious arch.

"SIRIUS!" the boy bellowed, "SIRIUS!"

"He can't come back, Harry," cried the werewolf, his voice breaking as he struggled to contain the boy, grabbing him by the chest and holding him back. "He can't come back, because he's d—"

"HE—IS—NOT— DEAD!" roared the boy. "SIRIUS!"

It was only his cries of rage and despair and the whizzing and shrieking of flying spells that hid the sound of her, crying as she was beneath the cloak.

She loved him. She'd always loved him. And though she tried to tell herself that it was too late for all of that, the way she _always_ had, to convince herself that she _couldn't_ feel that way about him…

She knew the truth. And it absolutely _destroyed _her, to see him in so much pain.

And so she wept.

She wept until the battle was over, even as she followed him, though she still retained enough sense to cast a Silencing Charm upon herself so that her sobs would not alert anyone to her presence. She witnessed the bitch corner the boy, saw the duel between Dumbledore and the Dark Lord, saw how the boy's love for his godfather drove away the poisonous malevolence that threatened to consume him…

She saw the Minister and his Aurors arrive, just in time to be of absolutely no use whatsoever. And thus was the boy whisked away to Dumbledore's study.

When she saw him again, he was entering the infirmary, being taken to a bed by the Matron, who fussed over him as he sat there numbly. She knew that the pain he was still suffering from could not be mended by healing spells or Calming Draughts. A piece of his heart had been torn out, torn out and thrust through that veil in the Department of Mysteries…

She was not worried that he would have gotten to the boy in the time that she had been apart from him. In fact, she knew for a fact that he hadn't, for if he had the scene she was about to witness would never have happened…

She should have realized this sooner. It would have saved her so much time. And yet…

She suspected that she had indeed known all along that the moment would come after tonight, but had wanted to start at the beginning anyway. To relive it all, experience anew the feelings that had led her down this long and twisted road…

And there was another reason, too. She knew now that the confrontation loomed ahead of her, that she was coming upon it rapidly, and that knowledge frightened her. In her heart of hearts, she dreaded what was to come. She'd been putting it off, in choosing so many other moments, because she was afraid. She was afraid, and had needed to begin her journey where she had, to gain along the away the strength she would need to see it through…

Eventually the Matron left, darkening the hospital wing for the night. The boy had not had the chance to speak to his friends, though he had been assured that all would be just fine. In the bed across from him lay the Longbottom boy, fast asleep under the comforting pull of a sleeping potion. Next to him slept the blonde, and beside her the red-headed girl. On one side of the boy lay the red-headed girl's equally ginger brother, across from whom lay the monster, thankfully catatonic, the fiend who had tortured the boy all year-long in detention…

On the other side of the boy lay the girl.

A few hours passed. She stood there at the foot of his bed, just watching him, waiting patiently. He did not sleep. He stared at the ceiling, mostly, and it hurt her to see the emotions that flickered within his emerald eyes.

Anger. Self-loathing. Loss. Guilt.

Such terrible, terrible guilt.

Finally, unable to wallow in the pain anymore, he sat up. The moment she had been waiting for had come.

She followed him as he got out of bed and moved to stand over the girl's. He looked around. There was no sign anyone else in the ward was awake, but he drew the curtains around them and warded them with Silencing Spells all the same.

He said nothing for a long time. He just looked down at the girl, his eyes intense and unreadable.

It sent a shiver down her spine, to see that now familiar expression upon his face, to see how the boy had looked at the girl with that frightfully intense, alien gaze _years_ before the night on which she had first seen it…

"I failed you," he said at last.

The girl's eyes were closed. She would recover well enough, in time, but tonight she was so far gone that she would not even dream. It was as if she had been Petrified all over again.

"Three years ago," the boy told her. "Three years ago, I told you that I would never let anything like that happen to you ever again. I _swore_."

He paused for a long while, as if trying to maintain his composure, keep himself from shouting.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered finally. "This is all my fault, you never should have been there, never _would _have been there if it wasn't for me…"

It was good that the girl was unconscious, she thought. She would have slapped him for daring to be so stupidly noble in front of her.

As it was, nothing interrupted the boy, so he kept on speaking. "You keep getting _hurt_, 'Mione, all because of me… _and I can't lose you!_

"You're my very best friend," he continued. "You've _always_ been there for me. I… I don't know how I would go on without you. I love you, Hermione."

The boy sighed, suddenly looking very, very tired. Deflated. Defeated. "_I love you, Hermione_," he whispered again. "And I'll always be there for you, always, but now… I'm beginning to wonder if it would be better for you if I weren't."

He drew back the curtains and cancelled the Silencing Charm, climbing back into his bed and burying himself in blankets. She watched him from her place beside the girl's bed. He tossed and turned, fitfully, and she doubted very much he would get any sleep at all this night.

She had a choice now. There were only two real moments left. Oh, there were others, other moments she could choose, but deep down she _knew_ that there were only two left that _he _would have chosen to make his move on.

She thought she knew now where all of this would come to a head. It made the most sense, really. But she would save that trip for the last, she decided. She was ready now to face him. After all, her next destination might very well be the moment he had chosen. But she thought she knew how his mind worked, and he would choose the other.

One last trip through time, then, one last look at the life of the boy and the girl before his meddling had torn it all apart. One last rush of heartbreak and infatuation and regret and _love_. One last chance to change her mind before it was all over.

No. There would be no surrendering now. It had to be done. He had to be stopped.

Her hands clutched at the Time-Turner and she closed her eyes, taking a deep breath to focus herself. One last jaunt down memory lane, and then she would end this all.

* * *

"You saw _me_?" Hermione asked, taken aback.

"Yes. And I hated myself for it." Harry's voice was monotonous again.

"Why?" asked the Healer.

"Because seeing her meant that all these years, I'd been living a lie."

A fresh row of sobs overtook Ginny. She broke down, sinking down into her chair, weeping. Tears began to sting Hermione's eyes as well.

"It was always you," he told her, his eyes gazing directly into hers. "I'm so sorry, Ginny… forgive me…"

"You… you never said…" blathered Hermione, to stunned to say anything coherent.

"I did say it," Harry cut in. "The night after the battle at the Department of Mysteries, I told you I loved you, but I couldn't find the courage to do it while you were awake…"

Hot, stinging tears ran down her cheeks freely now. _This _can't _be happening_, she thought, _not after all these years_...

"_Why?_"

"I pushed you away," he said. "And then you were with Ron, and it was easier to just pretend I had never felt anything at all for you…"

She began to get angry with him now. "So all those years, you _lied_ to me? You lied to _Ginny?_"

Harry did not speak for a moment. When did answer, his voice sounded tight, as if someone had reached their hand into him and clutched it around his vocal chords. "No. Not the whole time. That summer, after the war ended… and after that I had to accept that I would never have you, that you would never feel the same way… I learned to love Ginny, I really did, and our children… Oh, God, our children…"

He broke off, and his eyes began to flutter dangerously. "Eventually I convinced myself I had what I'd wanted all along, that I'd never really wanted anything else… and then it showed me _you_, and our own children, and I knew that I would never be satisfied with anything else…"

"The Memory Charm, Harry," Chatterjee said quietly. "Can you remember anything?"

"I was with her… with Hermione. And then… _he_ was there. Told me that if I wanted to keep her safe, I would have to let her go…"

"_Who?_" Hermione demanded, her voice so fierce that she'd hardly believed she was capable of such fury.

"He came to me, said that you had _died_, and that if I wanted to protect you, I had to give you up…"

"When?" asked the Healer. "When did he cast the spell on you?"

But Harry did not answer. Instead, with one last, intent look at Hermione, he closed his eyes, and began to mutter. She did not need to read his lips this time to realize he was once more saying "_I'm sorry_" over and over again.

Ginny sobbed until she had no more tears left to cry. Neither woman could look at the other. When Harry's wife could finally breath normally again, she got up and left the room.

Mercifully, Chatterjee said nothing to Hermione, only nodded grimly and left himself, leaving her alone with Harry.

It was her fault, then.

She knew. She knew who had cast the Memory Charm on him. She knew of only one man who would go to such extreme lengths to protect her, who would _manipulate the mind_ _of a young boy_ if it meant saving her… She knew of only one wizard still living powerful enough to even cast such a spell.

She clenched her hands into fists so tightly that her nails began to slice into the skin of her palm. She was so _angry_ with him…

And herself. She felt sick to her stomach. She was responsible for all of this. Poor Ginny…

She threw up. She'd managed to get to the dustbin in the corner of the room in just enough time. She gagged, and closed her eyes tightly, until her stomach was empty and it had passed.

She felt like dying.

How she wished that that _thing_ Harry had found had never shown him the truth! He could have just lived his life, believing he was happy. And she wouldn't feel so _guilty_, so _responsible_…

She wiped her mouth and stormed out of the room, leaving Harry alone, unable to be anywhere near him right now. She had to get away from him.

She felt like dying, and if it weren't for Rose and Hugo she might have considered doing something about it.

_Oh, God, Rose and Hugo…_

The thought of her own children made her immediately think of James, Albus and Lily, and she felt a fresh wave of nausea pass through her. How could they possibly handle something like this, their father in a bloody _coma_ because he'd realized that his entire life had been a lie, that they and their mother had been lies?

She didn't dare think of what Ron would say, if he were ever to find out.

She didn't know where to go. Couldn't go home, in case her husband showed up there. She couldn't face him right now. After tonight, she wasn't sure she would ever be able to face him. She couldn't stay _here_, at St. Mungo's, not when Harry still lay catatonic in his bed. She couldn't go to the Burrow, couldn't bear to try to explain things to Molly and Arthur, couldn't handle trying to tell Hugo why she was so upset…

She Apparated to the Ministry, to her office in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. It was late, and there was nobody left on the floor. Wearily, she collapsed into her chair, her head slumped over her desk. She felt angry again, angry at Harry for taking the coward's way out, for lying there in that bed unable to even open his eyes and speak to them without a potion forcibly poured down his throat. But a part of her understood, a part of her wanted to lay down and never get up again too…

Emotionally exhausted, she fell asleep with her head on her desk but found no rest, haunted by terrible dreams. Dreams where they were seventeen again and she tried to tell Harry how much she loved him, but he wouldn't listen and kept pushing her away, laughing at her and clutching Ginny to his side, snogging her. Then the dream changed, and she was looking down at a miserable eleven-year old Harry, his eyes filling with tears as he told her that she was in love with him. She and Ron laughed at him, guffawing at his stupidity, and she raised her wand and pointed it at his heart and hissed, "_Avada Kedavra!_"…

A light shining through the frosted glass of her office wall awoke her. Someone was coming closer, their wand shining brightly, and she could see the silhouette of a woman reaching for the handle on the door…

The door swung open, and she stepped into the office, the Lumos light of her wand so brilliant that Hermione was momentarily blinded, unable to see the woman's features at all.

"_Nox_."

The light went out, and Hermione's blood ran cold. Her eyes were now readjusting to the sudden darkness, but she knew that voice, knew who the woman standing in front of her was…

It was Ginny Potter, and she had her wand pointed right at her, and the look in her _eyes_, Merlin, it was like looking into a sea of pain…

"We need to talk."


	7. First Interlude: The Master of Death

**First Interlude**

**The Master of Death**

**Disclaimer:** To quote Rorschach's Blot, author of the absolutely fabulous Harry Potter fic Make A Wish… "Read it somewhere else, I doubt you think I own this and I also doubt that it provides any sort of protection against the sort of rabid attack lawyers that are in the employ of the major companies. I only include this section of the fic for the sake of tradition."

**Author's Note:** I'm particularly pleased with this interlude's epigraph, which I discovered purely on accident while writing it. I think it matches the tone of the chapter much more accurately than a certain other, more widely known line on lost love by Tennyson…

It kind of goes without saying that huge spoilers abound. If you ever wanted to read The Deathly Hallows, or even just enjoy the movies, without having it all given away here… bookmark this fic and come back to it after July 2011?

And finally, I've been keeping to a fairly good update schedule, a roughly a chapter a day. Fair warning, my birthday's this Monday, it's the big 21 and there's a good chance it may be a few days before the next update. I like to have the next two or three chapters written before I post one here, so it all depends on how long it takes me to get the next one done. Hope this one is good enough, and provides enough answers, to tide you over for a little while!

**Soundtrack Note: **Dumbledore's Farewell from the Half-Blood Prince soundtrack; such an angsty chapter needs an angsty song to go along with it. And for those of you without the soundtracks at home, I cannot recommend Youtube highly enough, pretty much all the albums are up there somewhere. Get yourself a good pair of headphones and enjoy the fic…

* * *

Better never to have met you in my dream than to wake and reach for hands that are not there.

-Ōtomo no Yakamochi

She had looked… _cold_.

It was the only way to describe her, really. Not _dead_, or _lifeless_, or _at rest_, but cold. It was the only word Harry could apply to her without breaking down and throwing himself off the top of the Astronomy Tower.

That was where he sat now, at the very edge, his legs dangling over the battlements. He had come up here blindly, unthinkingly, not sure why he was here the moment he'd arrived. He had considered jumping, but something had stopped him.

His _rage_ had stopped him.

He had killed Voldemort. Killed him, and regretted it immediately. He should have let him live a little longer. He should have kept him alive long enough to cast the Cruciatus Curse upon him until he was within an inch of his life first, _then_ killed him.

He hadn't even said goodbye to her. He'd left her in the castle, knowing that he would be going to his death in the Forbidden Forest. Knowing that that had been Dumbledore's plan all along. The Horcrux within him had to be eliminated, and in order for that to be done he would have to let Voldemort kill him. He couldn't bear to place the burden of that knowledge upon her; to have her know that he was going to his death.

He had taken the coward's way out, disappearing beneath his cloak while she grieved over Fred's body. By the time she'd realized where he had gone, it was too late. The Dark Lord had hit him with the Killing Curse.

And then a miracle happened.

He'd found himself in King's Cross Station, staring into the twinkling blue eyes of the man who'd planned his death.

_And he'd forgiven him_.

It was impossible to be angry with Dumbledore after seeing him like this; the man had seemed to radiate happiness like light, like fire: Harry had never seen the man so utterly, so palpably content.

After all his resentment towards the man, how odd it had been to sit there, beneath the high, vaulted ceiling, and defend Dumbledore from himself, when he had told him that he could not possibly despise him any more than he already despised himself.

Dumbledore explained to him the story of his sister's death, of his youthful mistakes, of his own death at the hands of Snape, and ultimately of his hopes for Harry's own sacrifice. He recalled the night Voldemort had returned, and the flash of something like triumph he had seen in the Headmaster's eyes when he had told him that the Dark Lord had used his blood in the resurrection ritual.

Finally, he understood. The connection between the two went both ways. While the Dark Lord's unintended Horcrux existed in him, Voldemort could not die; but while his own blood flowed through the Dark Lord's veins, neither could he.

And so Dumbledore presented him with a choice: he could move on, board a train and pass on into the great beyond, or he could return to the world of the living. Return to _her_.

Rise again.

They'd made Hagrid carry him. It was the hardest thing he had ever done, to not give his friend any reassurances, any signs that he still lived, to endure the half-giants sobs and feel his hot tears rain down upon him.

Their cries were more awful than anything he would ever have believed. McGonagall, Ron, Ginny…

And then he heard _her _scream, her voice like nothing he had never before heard emitted from another human being. Despair and disbelief, loss and agony and the death of hope. He could not bear to let it continue, needed to cry out to her, to reassure her he still lived, but he forced himself to lie still, silently awaiting the right moment. Soon it would be all over.

He had felt magnificent awe at the onslaught of the Centaurs, at Grawp's fearless charge into the fray. And he had never been more proud of another Gryffindor in his life when Neville summoned Godric's sword and severed the head of Nagini, destroying the last Horcrux.

He made his move.

Chaos reigned. Death Eaters were everywhere, and from beneath the cloak he cast jinx after jinx wherever he saw them, the defenders of the castle fighting with such terrible urgency that whatever little aid he could give was washed out in the sheer onslaught of their spells. He was buffeted into the Great Hall by the press of bodies, humbled by Kreacher's rallying cry, the castle House Elves being urged onward in his name. Yaxley was slammed to the floor by George and Lee Jordan, Dolohov fell with a scream at Flitwick's hands, Walden Macnair was thrown across the room by Hagrid and slid unconscious to the ground. Ron and Neville brought down Fenrir Greyback, Aberforth Dumbledore Stunned Rookwood, Arthur and Percy Weasley floored Thicknesse, and Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy ran through the crowd, not even attempting to fight, screaming for their son.

He had witnessed Voldemort dueling McGonagall, Slughorn and Kingsley all at once, none of them able to match him.

And just when he was about to make his way into the center of it all, to duel the Dark Lord and finish it all for good, he saw _her_, cutting past Ginny, Luna and Mrs. Weasley.

Tears streaked down her red face, shaken and contorted by so many different raging emotions that it was a wonder it hadn't cracked: bereavement, anguish, raw, impossible fury…

He had seen no fear there, and to his horror she charged straight for the Dark Lord.

She screamed, and raised her wand, and was struck in the back by a jet of green light by Bellatrix Lestrange.

She fell. She died.

His howl was of such fierce grief that it overpowered the sounds of everything else, and the battle froze, as everyone tried to identify its source.

He cast no spell, focused on nothing in particular except the blinding red haze of vengeance he craved; he merely felt an overpowering desire to see the bitch die, and the Elder Wand was torn out of his Voldemort's grasp and flung into his own.

He had thrust it out at Bellatrix, and willed his heartache out through it. She died. From the sounds she made before she forever quieted, it sounded as if it had been a particularly horrific way to go. He'd had a vague impression that her internal organs had been liquefied, but he was already ripping of the cloak and turning to face the Dark Lord, who stared at him in shock and horror.

There was no witty banter, no final dialogue between foes. He did not gloat, or insult the villain. A quick stab with the Hallow and a flash of green and it was all over. The aftermath was filled with stunned silence and incredulous looks.

"_Get out of my way_," he had said, and they cleared a path to her body.

He'd wept over her, cradling her in his arms, for a long time, for what had seemed to him like hours. The only woman who he had ever truly loved, who had ever truly loved him…

Cold.

In death the look he had seen on her face, that look of terrible confusion and rage, had vanished; she seemed to be at peace.

He tried his hardest, but was unable to find any comfort in that.

Only the Weasleys dared approached him, and the glare he fixed them with quickly showed them the error of their ways. When he was finally sicker of all their stares than he was desperate to be close to her corpse, he stood, enshrouded himself in the Invisibility Cloak, and left them behind in the Great Hall.

_If anyone quotes Tennyson, I swear by my magic I'll Stupefy them…_

His rage at it all had kept him from hurling himself from the top of the Astronomy Tower, but without anyone living for him to take that rage out on, it began to cool replaced with a dull, painful ache.

A dull, painful ache, and the beginnings of a plan…

What was it Mr. Lovegood had said? "_Master. Conqueror. Vanquisher. Whichever term you prefer._"

"Harry?"

He turned and looked over his shoulder. It was Ron. The redhead looked as if he'd been crying. For the first time since he saw her die, he realized that others had lost the ones they'd loved as well. Some more than others. Ron had lost both his brother and the girl he'd loved. She and Harry may have been together, may have loved each other more than words could say, but he knew without a doubt that Ron had been in love with her too.

"How did you find me?" he asked.

"With the Marauder's Map," Ron said softly, holding up said piece of parchment.

_The last Marauder died tonight_. Harry's eyes snapped away from it as if it afraid looking at the map might blind him.

"Why are you here, Ron?" he asked tiredly.

"Don't you _dare_," snapped Ron. "Don't you _dare_ do that to me tonight, Harry. I lost one best friend tonight. You're all I have left."

Harry sighed. "I'm sorry. I just…"

"Yeah. I know."

The two remained where they were in silence for several minutes. Ron did not pressure him. For once in his life, he was patient. Finally, though, Harry was ready to talk.

He told him everything. About what he had seen in Snape's memories, about how he had gone into the Forest thinking he was about to die, about the way he had left her without saying goodbye because he couldn't bear to have her try to talk him out of it…

He told him about how he had been killed, and what Dumbledore had told him on the other side, and how that because of Voldemort's meddling with forces that he did not truly understand, he had been able to return to life.

Ron knew all the rest. He had been there for the final fight, witnessed her death, seen him kill Bellatrix and the Dark Lord.

"You can't blame yourself," his friend told him, and he laughed, the sound dark and mirthless.

"Oh, but I can… it _was_ my fault," he said, staring up at the stars. "It was _all_ my fault. Lupin, Tonks, Hermione… _Fred_… If it weren't for me, none of them would've died tonight."

"You're right."

Harry snapped his head around as if he'd been slapped.

"If you had never been born, Hermione would never have been killed tonight," Ron said calmly. "She'd have been killed ages ago, or worse, for being a Muggle-born. You-Kno—fuck it, _Voldemort_ would never have fallen, he'd have conquered the whole wizarding world, probably the Muggle world too, and me and my brothers would probably all be Death Eaters right now if we wanted to have any chance at surviving, seeing how popular we Weasleys are with the bastards."

He leaned in, his voice dangerously cool. "If you'd never been born, Fred would still be alive. He'd be a Death Eater, and instead of owning a joke shop and being brilliant at pranks and spells and making others laugh and being one of the kindest, most incredible men I have ever had to privilege to know… he and George would go around torturing Mudbloods and killing whoever Voldemort thought needed killing. That's the way they would've been raised after my parents were sent to Azkaban or killed for being blood traitors, and they probably wouldn't see a bloody thing wrong with it. Neither would I."

Ron looked at the tears that had pooled in his friend's eyes, and nodded. "Thank you for only getting my brother killed. Thank you for giving him the last seventeen years of his life, to grow into the person he was meant to be. Thank you for not letting him become a monster."

It took Harry a long time to regain his composure. Ron allowed him his dignity and did not try to speak to him while he fought back tears.

"Thank you, Ron," he said at last. "You're a good friend."

"Anytime, mate."

Together, the two looked up at the stars, as they had in so many Astronomy lessons. _She_ had always helped him with his homework in that class… in all of his classes, really…

Harry looked at last remaining best friend. "I can't live without her, Ron."

Ron shook his head. "There are some things even you can't change, Harry…" He trailed off, frozen by the intensity in his friend's eyes.

"_Pity the living, and above all, those who live without love_…"

"What's that from?" asked Ron.

"It's something Dumbledore told me," Harry said simply. He turned and walked towards the winding stairway, carrying the bunched-up cloak in his hands.

"Where are you going?" called Ron, hurrying after him.

He didn't reply.

In silence the two passed down the stairway and through the muted hallways. The portraits on the walls stared at them, whispering amongst themselves and running ahead through the frames to keep up with them. He ignored them.

Since he had last seen it, the gargoyle guarding the entrance to the headmaster's study had been knocked aside; it stood lopsided, looking a little punch-drunk, and he doubted it would be able to distinguish passwords anymore.

The gargoyle groaned as he stepped over it without saying a word and began ascending the short, clipped steps, Ron hurrying after him.

The room was dark and utterly still. All around the walls, the headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts stared down at him solemnly. Gravely they remained there, waiting for him. But he had eyes only for the man who stood in the largest portrait directly behind the headmaster's chair. Tears were sliding down from behind the half-moon spectacles into the long silver beard, and he could feel the regret emanating off of him in physical waves.

"Good evening, Professor Dumbledore," Harry said, his voice wooden.

"Harry—Harry my boy—I am so _sorry_," whispered the former headmaster. They all knew, then.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," he told the portrait wearily. "It was not your fault, what happened to her."

"But it _was_… if I hadn't sent you off to die, then she would never have…"

"If you had never sent me off to die, she and every other Muggle-born would have been tortured and killed regardless," said Harry, with a nod at Ron.

"I have done you so many wrongs, Harry…"

It disturbed him to see Albus this way; such _misery_ he had never seen on the man, except for the night on which he had died, when he was forced to drink from the potion protecting the false Horcrux…

"And I've forgiven you all of them."

The portrait stared at him. "You have?"

"I have."

A fresh wave of tears overcame the headmaster, and Harry waited for him patiently, choosing his next words carefully, vaguely aware that Ron was still standing behind him.

"The thing that was hidden in the Snitch," he began, "I dropped it in the forest. In a moment I will go retrieve it. I have the wand, and the cloak. When I have all three Hallows again, I will be the Master of Death."

"Harry… even with the stone…" whispered Dumbledore. "You cannot bring her back. Not the way you want."

"Not with the stone, no," Harry agreed. "But with the wand, and the cloak…" He trailed off.

A flash of understanding shone in the portrait's eyes, followed by sorrow. "The past cannot be changed, Harry… Time moves ever forward, and its course cannot be Transfigured with a wave of your wand, even if that wand is the Elder Wand. Believe me, it is a fool's errand—I of all men know that..."

"You of all men should understand what it means to do something foolish for the sake of love," Harry told him softly.

Dumbledore looked at Harry as if he had slipped a dagger in between his ribs. He sighed and looked down, ashamed.

"The Ministry, then," Albus' portrait told him at last. "It will have what you need. You know where to look, you've been there before."

"Thank you, Headmaster." Harry unfurled the cloak, holding it with outstretched arms, smoothing the wrinkles out of the fabric. With a flourish, he swept it around him, so that it hung from his shoulders. Grasping the two corners that dangled over his shoulders, he knotted them around his neck, tying the cloak so that it formed a cape.

"Harry…" called Dumbledore as he prepared to leave.

He looked back at the frame over the headmaster's desk.

"I hope very much that you succeed in what it is you are about to do."

With a nod, he strode out of the room, a new sense of purpose driving him onward. Ron trailed after him, down the spiral staircase the lead down from the headmaster's study. Harry stopped when he reached the bottom, giving his friend one last look, trying to convey all the friendship and devotion he had for the other man through his eyes.

"Where I am going now, Ron, you cannot follow."

"The hell I can't, Harry. I might have abandoned you once, but I'm never making that mistake again. I'm coming with you, for as long as I can."

Harry nodded slowly. "Very well. For as long as you can." Turning again, he continued on down the corridor, heading for the Grand Staircase. Great chunks of marble were missing from it, part of the balustrade gone, and rubble and bloodstains occurred every few steps as they descended.

As they reached the ground floor and made their way to the castle entrance, the others stared after them. McGonagall, Neville, Ginny and Molly Weasley, Hagrid… no one called out to him, no one tried to stop him. He could _feel_ their pity for him.

They needn't waste it on him, he thought.

Soon it would all be undone.

He passed through the castle doors and strode through the courtyard, heading for the Forbidden Forest once he reached the grounds.

Ron struggled to keep up; such was the urgency in Harry's movements that he seemed to glide down the terrain. It was difficult to catch sight of him, as well; with the cloak hanging down over his shoulders, only the back of his head was visible from Ron's point of view. He chased after the bobbing, rapidly moving head as it moved swiftly past Hagrid's hut, but lost sight of him as he reached the edge of the forest.

Harry continued onward, navigating the forest by memory, following its winding paths until he reached neared the clearing in which he had offered himself up to Voldemort.

He cast his eyes around the place, standing in the path ahead of the entrance into the clearing. It was darkest night, and the Dark Lord's fire had been extinguished. His eyes could make out nothing in the pitch black of the shadows. He raised his wand arm, and the Elder Wand pulsed, and the path suddenly glowed with a dull orange light that seemed to come not from any one place but rather all around him.

He squatted down, staring at the muddy earth. A troop of centaurs had charged through here; already the footsteps of Hagrid and the Death Eater parade had been obscured with countless hoof-prints.

"_Accio Resurrection Stone_," he whispered, and from the earth ahead shot a tiny, round gem, flinging itself into his hand. He wiped the dirt from it, examining it introspectively. He held the stone in one hand, the wand in the other, and the cloak was draped over his shoulders.

He was no longer the Boy-Who-Lived. He was the Master of Death.

From somewhere behind him, he heard Ron calling his name, his voice coming closer, no doubt guided by the light he had summoned.

He closed his eyes, and turned the stone over in his hand three times.

When he opened his eyes, she stood before him, regarding him with a sad smile upon her face. Neither ghost nor living flesh, she looked exactly as she he had last seen her, pale and cold and _dead_—he could think it now, now that he knew it would all be undone soon enough—in the Great Hall. The only difference was her eyes, open and sparkling and very much alive.

"You know what I am about to do," he said softly. It was not a question.

"Yes," she answered.

"You aren't going to try to talk me out of it?"

She rolled her eyes and told him, "Since when have I _ever _been able to talk you out of anything? I hardly expect to be able to do so _now_."

She looked so normal and alive, just then, and he could feel his wounded heart being torn open all over again.

"I love you," he whispered.

"And I you," she told him. "Always, and forever. No matter what happens."

"I'll fix it. I swear. And none of this will ever have happened."

She gave him that slow, sad smile again. "You can't fix it, Harry. I _died_."

"_I have to try_," he whispered at her.

"Of course you do. You wouldn't be you if you didn't. But you won't succeed, my love. And even if you do succeed… I don't _want_ you to. I want the love that we had, together, as brief as it was, than to have never had it at all."

He brushed her words aside. "That will never happen. I won't allow it."

Someone came noisily running down the path, and the two turned to see Ron break through the shadows and into the opening of the clearing. He froze in place, staring in awe at her, his mouth dropping open in wonder.

"H—Hermione?" Ron asked weakly.

Harry lowered the hand containing the stone, and Hermione faded away, her gleaming brown eyes that last of her to disappear. The orange light dimmed and went out as well, leaving them in darkness.

"Wh—what did you do that for?" demanded Ron, glaring angrily at the silhouette of his friend as their eyes adjusted once more to the dark. "Bring her back! I didn't get to say goodbye!"

"There is no need," he told the redhead. "Soon she will be alive and well again. Goodbye, Ron. You have followed me as far as you can. From here I must go on alone."

And just like that, he gripped the Elder Wand at his side tightly in his fist and vanished with a loud crack, _never mind_ that you're not supposed to able to Apparate or Disapparate on Hogwarts grounds, leaving Ron alone in the forest, dreadfully certain he would never, ever see either of his two best friends again.

He reappeared within the Department of Mysteries, in the Time Room. Next to him sat a large crystal bell jar, glowing from within, a hummingbird fluttering about near the top. As he watched, it sank towards the bottom, growing smaller and fuzzier, until it was swallowed whole by a tiny, jewel-bright egg, which resealed itself perfectly and then hatched to unleash the rapidly aging hummingbird all over again.

This was the place, alright.

At the edge of the room lay a workbench, upon which sat several jars of sand and boxes of broken glass. They had all been destroyed two years ago, he knew, in the battle over the prophecy. Evidently fixing them hadn't been a major priority under Thicknesse's administration, or else they were simply beyond repair.

For anyone but him, that is.

With a wave of the Elder Wand, the shards of glass came together and the lid shot off of one of the jars, a stream of sand flying into the heart of the contraption. The edges of the device glowed a molten red-orange for a moment, and then it settled down on to the surface of the workbench, a tiny, immaculate Time-Turner.

He picked it up, cradling it gently in his hands. This would do perfectly.

Dumbledore and Hermione had both told him that he would fail. He would prove them wrong.

He could go back, digging up and destroying the bones of Voldemort's father, preventing him from killing Cedric Diggory and rising again. Or even further, to when he had been just an infant, to prevent Peter Pettigrew from betraying his parents. Or all the way back, and snap the neck of Tom Riddle as an infant in his cradle… He could save them all, his mother and his father and Cedric and Sirius and Hedwig and Moody and Dobby and Remus and Tonks and Fred…

But no. He knew, though the idea of leaving them all to rot in the ground ate away at him, that it was not his place to save them all. It was not his role to decide, to clutch the dead back from their realm as long as he had happened to have liked them in life…

He was only here because of her. Hers was the one death that he would never be able to accept, to learn to live with.

She had died because of her love for him. He would need to make sure that the same mistakes were not repeated. There were so many moments he could choose, the most important moments of his life, the ones he had shared with her…

But there was really only one, though, when it all came down to it. One moment to keep their feelings for one another from blooming, to delay her love for him until the war was over and it would be safe for them to be together…

Placing the Time-Turner around his neck, he began to twist it between his fingers.

He had made his decision. His quest had begun.

The Master of Death was on the move.


	8. Chapter VI

**Chapter VI**

**Comfort / The Decision**

**Disclaimer:** I've made absolutely no progress on acquiring sole ownership of Harry Potter since the last update. Drat. Foiled again.

**Author's Note:** Thanks for the birthday wishes and the positive reviews everyone! Apologies for throwing you a curveball with that last one, but hopefully it should be starting to make more sense... All will be revealed, in the next chapter especially.

Heh, so by now it should be obvious that Dumbledore was a red-herring. Sorry, folks! It's all for the best, though—it's much more dramatic, this way, and frankly I take the same stance on Manipulative Dumbledore as I do on Weasley Bashing. In hindsight, that should be relatively obvious—just look at my pen name, it's obvious I adore the man.

On with the fic!

**Soundtrack Note: **Farewell Aragog from the Half Blood Prince soundtrack, and The Invisibility Cloak and The Library Scene from the Sorcerer's Stone soundtrack.

* * *

"It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities."  
-Albus Dumbledore

The girl ran down the empty hallway, her face red, her breath coming in quick gasps that had nothing to do with exertion. She reached the first door she could find and flung it open with a flick of her wand, pulling the door shut behind her.

Seconds later the portrait swung open and out emerged the boy, looking wildly every which way. There was not a soul in sight, no one there but the portraits on the wall and her, hidden beneath the cloak.

He didn't waste time looking around for long; he started for the nearest door, and sure enough, within he found the girl. She followed him into the room, careful to keep herself concealed.

"Hermione?"

He was staring at the girl. She was sitting on the teacher's desk, alone except for a small ring of twittering yellow birds circling her head, which she had clearly just conjured out of midair. He could not help admiring her spellwork at a time like this.

"Oh, hello, Harry," said the girl, her voice brittle. "I was just practicing."

"Yeah… they're—er—really good…" he replied. He seemed to be at a loss for words.

She rather doubted that there would have been anything he _could_ have said. Certainly nothing that would have made the girl feel better.

The boy was the _last_ person the girl wanted talking to her right now.

Unable to sit there with him in silence, the girl spoke, her voice unnaturally high-pitched. "Ron seems to be enjoying the celebrations."

"Er… does he?"

"Don't pretend you didn't see him," said the girl. "He wasn't exactly hiding it, was—?"

At that _exact_ moment, the door swung open, and the boy stared at it in abject horror as his redheaded friend dragged the slut in by the hand, laughing all the way.

"Oh," said the newcomer, his eyes wide as saucers, his voice like that of a child caught with his hand in the biscuit jar.

"Oops!" giggled the slut, backing out of the room, the door swinging shut behind her.

The silence was excruciating.

She began to regret choosing this _particular _moment. But it was like watching a train wreck; now that she was already here, her eyes were riveted to the scene…

"Hi, Harry! Wondered where you'd got to!" said the redhead, his voice full of false cheeriness, much too loud in the sudden quiet of the room.

The girl slid off the desk. Her eyes were narrowed dangerously, the tiny golden birds still flying in perfect circles around her head.

"You shouldn't leave Lavender waiting outside," she said quietly. "She'll wonder where you've gone."

Slowly, the girl made her way to the doorway, her movements stiff and formal. The redhead looked relieved to have been let off so lightly.

"_Oppugno!_" shrieked the girl.

The boy stared in shock as the flock of golden birds rocketed at his friend impossibly fast, screeching at him with tiny, avian fury. The redhead yelped and covered his face with his hands, but the birds attacked, pecking and clawing at every bit of flesh they could reach.

Despite the gravity of the situation, despite knowing the way that everything would turn out, the corners of her mouth twisted up into a vengeful little smile. _He really did have it coming_, she thought.

"Gerremoffme!" cried the boy, swatting desperately at the cloud of darting yellow missiles, cringing in pain and fear. The girl wrenched the door open, and with a sob, slammed it after herself as she fled the scene.

Still stunned, the boy stared from his friend to the door and back again. With a flick of his wand and a muttering of "_Finite Incantatum_"_,_ he vanished the birds. "Oh, _thank you_!" moaned his friend, his relief palpable, but the boy was already racing out the door, in hot pursuit of the girl. She followed closely after him.

There was no sign of her. The boy skidded to a halt, then jammed his hand into his pocket, withdrawing a large piece of parchment. Touching his wand to it, he murmured, "_I solemnly swear I am up to no good_."

With a start, she reached for the Time-Turner, and rolled back the hours. It would be no good for him to see her name upon the map. She made her way to where she knew the girl would be, where he would eventually find her, and outside of time as she was, she knew that the boy would never see her on the parchment.

As she flipped the hourglass back the other way, the girl zipped into the bathroom and into the stall, slamming the door shut behind her with impossible speed. She stilled the Time-Turner immediately; it would be only moments before the boy arrived.

Alone with the girl, she could hear nothing but the sounds of her sobs.

She pitied her. The girl had been put in an impossible position, really. Despite having made it clear to the boy that she refused to hold him responsible for her injuries the year before, he had still pushed her away. Worst of all was the way he stared after the redheaded boy's sister…

The girl wasn't yet sure whether or not the boy realized the way he felt about his best friend's little sister, but she had. And it absolutely devastated her.

_Especially _when the only other boy who she really cared about, the only other boy she stood a chance with, was such a _prat_…

She watched as the door swung open and the boy entered, indifferent to who saw him barge into a girl's toilet. The girl abruptly began holding in her sobs, but the boy was not fooled in the slightest. His face was very, very serious, a look on him she normally associated with dueling Dark Lords or outwitting Hungarian Horntails.

"I know you're in there, Hermione!"

"How did you find me?" the girl asked faintly.

"The Marauder's Map. Are you going to come out of there so we can talk?"

"I do _not_ want to talk about Ron right now," snapped the girl.

At the mention of his friend's name, the boy looked briefly as if he wanted to punch the wooden frame of the stalls, but quickly composed himself. "We don't have to. We can talk about Quidditch, or—" he began.

"And I do _NOT_ want to talk about Quidditch, either!"

"—or Arithmancy, or Ancient Runes, or the latest issue of _Witch Weekly_—"

"I would _never_ read such a _dreadful_ periodical!"

"Look, the point is, we're _going_ to talk about _something_, at least until I know that you're ok, alright?" The boy looked up the ceiling, exasperated.

"I'm perfectly ok, why wouldn't I be?" asked the girl. The awkwardness of the ensuing silence suggested that even she didn't believe she'd get away with that one.

"Yeah. Right." With a role of his eyes, the boy opened the door to the adjoining stall and closed it behind him, taking a seat.

He waited for her, patiently. That's the one thing the girl hated—and loved—the most about the entire situation: the boy would always wait for her. He endured, and wore her down, and she found she couldn't give _him_ the silent treatment, she just didn't have it in her.

Finally, the girl spoke. "So, what do you want to talk about?"

"Er—I kind of had been hoping you _would_ want to talk about Quidditch—I don't know bollocks about Arithmancy or Ancient Runes…"

The girl laughed, then, despite herself, a bitter sounding thing that did not encourage the boy one bit.

After a moment, he asked her in a soft voice, "How are you really doing?"

"I'm _fine_, Harry," said the girl. She was not particularly convincing.

"Are you sure you don't want to talk about—"

"Actually, there is something I want to discuss with you."

"Yes?" asked the boy, grateful that he'd gotten her to open up.

"Let's talk about Ginny," she said firmly.

"W-_what?_" sputtered the boy, all traces of gratefulness gone.

"Does she know how you feel about her yet?"

"Er—_if_ I had feelings for her, other than the _completely_ brotherly affection I _do _have for her—"

The girl snorted.

"…she's, er, with Dean, anyway. So…"

"She'd drop him in a heartbeat if you made your feelings known. Even if you don't, it's only a matter of time until they're broken up anyway. They're not right for one another."

The awkwardness was particularly excruciating, for all three of them.

"Er—right. Hey, hang on now! If you get to talk to _me _about Ginny—which, I don't get why you'd want to talk about _that_, there's nothing there, you're nuts—" said the boy a little too quickly, "then I get to talk to _you_ about Ron. What's _going on_ with you two?"

"There's _nothing _going on with us. He's with Lavender now, obviously, and that's perfectly fine because we're both allowed to be with whoever we want, it's not like the two of us are together or anything," she sniffed.

But the longing in her voice made it clear that the girl wished otherwise.

The boy didn't know what to say to that. He just sat with her a while, hoping it would be enough to just _be_ there for her. He didn't think she should be alone right now, despite her protestations to the contrary.

"Why are you so upset about him?" he asked after a long while, his voice slow and subdued. "Do you really fancy him that much? Because you're brilliant, Hermione. I'm not just talking about your mind. You're incredible. You could have any guy you want in the entire school—well, maybe not in Slytherin, but any _sane_ guy you want—a bloke would have to be crazy not to fall head right over heels for you."

And there he had come to the crux of the matter. The only one the girl had ever _really _wanted to be with was sitting right next to her in the next stall over, and she knew that he would never, ever feel that way for her. He was in love with the redheaded girl, and even if he weren't he thought of her as too much of a sister to ever want to be with her like that. Hell, even the _prat_ had decided that snogging with the slut was preferable to being with her, and she'd hoped that her chances with _him_ at least would be better than zero...

Worst of all, she had brought this all upon herself. It was the girl, after all, who had told the redhead's sister that if she wanted the boy, she should date a little, develop her self-confidence, learn to be herself around him… Boy, did she ever regret _that_ decision. Even more so not than not thinking to check that she was adding _human_ hair to her Polyjuice Potion second year…

"So the Quaffle then, that's the big red ball, supposed to get thrown through the hoops?" asked the girl.

The boy laughed. It was clear to him that the girl didn't want to discuss the matter any more, and though he didn't like it very much, he'd respect her wishes.

"Are you ready to go back to the common room now?"

"Yes," came the girl's soft reply.

Together the two friends exited the stalls, avoiding each other's eyes, and trudged towards the door and down the hallway.

She trailed after them, observing. She couldn't help but think that they were both so bloody _stupid_.

If only one of them had dared to confess the way they truly felt…

So much for that Gryffindor courage.

The three made their way up to the seventh floor, not a word being spoken from the time they left the girl's toilet. When they passed through the portrait entrance, the boy and the girl uttered quick goodbyes and disappeared through the still-raging party to their respective dormitories. Things would be weird between them for the next few days, and then so perfectly normal that privately the girl would wish things had gone back to being weird.

And then the boy would start dating _her_, and the girl would be inconsolable…

As she had every night after a new moment, she followed the boy up to his four-poster bed to watch over him until morning. She told herself that she was just being thorough—after all, he would hardly assault the boy in the middle of conversing with the boy, right?—but a part of her knew that it was more than that.

Truth be told, she'd come to enjoy watching him sleep.

Except tonight, sleep didn't appear to be on the agenda, at least not right away.

He'd drawn the curtains closed around him with an angry sigh, but hadn't bothered to put up any Silencing Charms. His best mate was nowhere to be seen, probably off snogging the slut, and his other roommates were still down in the common room celebrating. As far as he was concerned, he was alone.

Beneath the cloak, she blushed furiously.

_Oh. Oh my. Well, he is a healthy teenage boy, it's perfectly natural_…

That was it, then.

She lingered in the room until morning, but the time passed much too swiftly for her liking. She'd run out of excuses, out of chances to delay the inevitable.

There was only one moment left, and she knew he would be there.

And though she knew what she must do, she could admit to herself that she was afraid. Not so much of failing, but of the confrontation. She was afraid of facing him. Afraid of what he would say or do, of seeing how twisted he had become, that he would do such a thing to the boy.

As the early dawn light began to filter in through the windows, she heaved a sigh. It was time to move on. Time to finish it.

Time to set it all right.

She reached for the Time-Turner, started it spinning, and was gone.

* * *

Hermione's eyes adjusted to the darkness, and inwardly she wished that she would have remained sightless.

The tip of Ginny's wand was still aimed directly at her, but that was nothing compared to the look the other woman had on her face, her brown eyes filling with tears, staring at her in pain and anguish…

She knew that her sister-in-laws eyes would forever haunt her, and that she would never again be able to close her own without finding herself staring into them.

"Ginny—" she whimpered.

"No." Ginny said starkly. "No apologies. I need to hear the truth from you."

"I didn't know, I swear I never knew…"

For a moment she thought, she _hoped_, that Ginny might curse her. But instead the redhead just lowered her wand, and somehow it was even worse after that, seeing her wracked with sobs of grief and betrayal, unable to do a damned thing to comfort her.

She was responsible for the other woman's pain.

In time, Ginny sank into the chair across from Hermione's desk, and the two cried together, sharing each other's sorrow.

When finally the last tears had spilled down their cheeks, Ginny looked directly at her and said, with labored breath, "Tell me what you're going to do. Tell me how you're going to make this all better."

"_I can't_," wailed Hermione, burying her face in her hands. "There's no way out of it. I can't think straight, can't even _breathe_, it's all just such a _mess_…" Ginny only waited for her, forcing her to continue rambling on. "…the way he just lay there, traumatized, and there's nothing I can _do _about it…"

Quietly, the redhead asked, "Do you love him?"

"I love Ron, you _know _that…"

"Do. You. Love. Him?"

"I DON'T KNOW!" she roared, but the passion belying her words gave both women the answer they needed.

"There isn't any way to fix it, Ginny…" she said miserably.

"There is a way," said Harry's wife darkly. "I know it's crossed your mind, you're too bright for it not to have occurred to you right away."

Hermione just stared at her, eyes bulging. "No!"

"You don't have any choice!" snarled Ginny.

"Please… _please_… don't ask me to do this…" Hermione begged, her eyes pleading. "You do it, I _can't_…"

"And you think _I_ can? You really think I could go back, erase it all, make it so none of it ever happened? I'm not able, I don't have it in me. I wouldn't be able to go through with it. It has to be you. _You_ _owe me this_."

She heard the truth in the redhead's voice, the finality of it, but refused to accept it, backpedaling desperately.

"I'd never even make it, it's impossible, I'd be stopped…"

Without ceremony, Ginny dumped her husband's invisibility cloak on the desk between them. Hermione had never even seen it, clutched under the other woman's arm.

She stared at it, for a long time, and then forced herself to meet the other woman's eyes.

"But… Ron… and _the children_… Rose, and Hugo… _Your own children_… How can you ask me to do this? How can you ask me to destroy the lives we've created?"

"Do you think I _want _this life? Now? Knowing that it's all been a lie? That none of it was ever real?" snapped the redhead. "Do you think I will ever be able to look at him, or our children, the same way ever again? _It has to be done_."

"There are _rules_," Hermione said weakly, her last, feeble line of defense against the other woman's furious determination.

"And he broke them first, remember?" She stood. "Don't do it for me, Hermione. Do it for him. You saw what he was like. What it did to him." She moved to the door, opening it, and looked back. "You can save him." And just like that, she was gone.

Hermione couldn't bear to move for a long time after that. All she could do was think about Hugo, and how scared he must be, kept over at his grandparents' without any explanation, any word from her…

How Rose was most likely oblivious to anything being wrong, warm and happy tucked beneath her sheets in Gryffindor Tower…

How Ron was possibly already home, wondering why his wife hadn't yet arrived home from work, or else sitting at Harry's side at St. Mungo's, his face twisted up in worry while he tried to figure out where Ginny and she had disappeared to…

If she hadn't already emptied her stomach, she'd have thrown up again.

Ginny was asking too much of her. She was asking her to give up _everything_, to erase not only herself, but Ron and Rose and Hugo and everything they'd accomplished together, the home that they'd made together…

She couldn't do it. She couldn't give it all up.

But Ginny's last words kept repeating over and over in her mind, taunting her.

_You can save him…_

Abruptly she thought of him, not the man she'd seen less than an hour ago, lying comatose in bed, but the boy she'd had a schoolgirl crush on, the boy who'd already suffered so much, endured so many wounds…

What would he have to ultimately look forward to? A life that was a lie, a few years' happy existence until it all came crashing down, utterly ruined, unsalvageable?

Her rage bubbled up within her, and all she could see was red. She was furious with him, furious for what he had done to the boy. A Memory Charm might not be one of the three Unforgivable Curses, but in her book, it was most certainly _unforgivable_. He might have well have used the Imperius Curse. To violate a child's mind like that, to steal something so precious from him, erase his feelings like that, doom him to a such a miserable fate…

But it wasn't enough. Couldn't be enough. _Nothing_ could be enough, could drive her to lose her children and her husband, the man she loved, yes _loved_, for she'd meant it when she told Ginny she loved Ron… They'd spent their entire adult lives together, and despite all these old feelings for Harry that had been dug up, she would never willingly give up the life she had built with him…

She didn't feel that way about Harry anymore, she really _didn't_…

She rose, dully, woodenly. She grabbed the cloak, and shoved it under her arm.

She knew how to resolve this. How to make her decision.

She needed to see what he had seen.

A part of her mind screamed at her as she opened the door and strolled down the hallway, knowing what would come of it, knowing it would be her undoing. _You've already _made _your decision, don't do this…_

She realized with a curious sort of apathetic interest that she wasn't entirely conscious of the journey there. She suddenly found herself in a large, darkened room full of empty desks, and started making her way across it. The Auror's Office. She realized as she passed by the few remaining on-duty Aurors working the late shift that she'd already slipped beneath the cloak. Against the far corner was a tinted blue window, the shades drawn, a solid-looking wooden door barring entry into the head's private office…

She knew the wards on it were extensive, and would backfire quite nastily on anyone who tried to enter the room uninvited. But she also knew Harry, knew whom he had admired more than any other man in the world and to whom he would pay homage to in his private defenses.

"_Sherbet lemon_," she whispered, and the door unlocked with a click and swung open, admitting her.

There it stood in the back corner of the room, next to and behind Harry's desk. It was covered with a sheet, though its shape was so distinct that she realized what it was immediately.

Through the darkness, she made her way to it, tugging the sheet off of it and down, fluttering to the ground, seeing her eyes reflected at her like daggers.

It was the Mirror of Erised.

She had never before seen the artifact, her sole knowledge of it coming from Harry's and Ron's experiences with it in their first year at Hogwarts. But there was no doubt in her mind that this was it as she ran her hand over the ornate frame, squinting in the shadows to make out the inscription that jumped out at her fingers atop the hallowed object.

_Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi_...

It was broken. Spider-webs of cracks ran across the glass, and the epicenter was all smashed in, as if someone had struck it with their fist.

His hand, she thought, and closed her eyes in understanding. He'd been _excited _when he'd first heard of the transfer, Ron had told her, taking it over himself, probably remembering what he'd first seen in it as a boy. Only it hadn't shown him what he'd expected, when he'd finally gotten the chance to sneak a glance at it.

He had seen her. The two of them, together, and their children, beaming up at him in the mirror. The life he'd been living had been abruptly exposed as a lie. He'd managed to convince himself, delude himself, into thinking that all was exactly as it should be, and what he had seen had torn that all away from him…

And then, and only then, he had begun to fight the Memory Charm that had been placed upon him, and all had been shot straight to hell.

She saw only her reflection in the glass, multiple facets of her eyes and grim-set mouth in the broken mirror. Harry had really done a number on it.

She held her wand up and tapped it against the glass. "_Reparo_," she murmured. The cracks changed position, the spider-web pattern shifting the damage all around, but the cracks refused to seal, the mirror refused to mend.

Hermione hadn't really expected it to work, of course. Harry had obsessed over fixing it for weeks, it was hardly as if he'd have neglected to cast a simple repairing spell…

She ran her fingers along the shattered glass again, remembering what Harry had said about how Dumbledore had hidden the Stone, how it would only be revealed to the person who wanted to _find _it, not use it.

Intuitively, she understood then, knew how to make it work. Harry had tried to fix it, but had of course failed, because he hadn't _wanted_ to succeed, not really. His true desire had been for the thing to remain forever smashed, to try and ignore it and go back to living under his delusions…

Realizing this, she closed her eyes tightly. For her, it was different. She thought of what she wanted, truly wanted to see, and whispered, "_Show me…_"

There came the crunching sound of fusing glass and a rush of air, and when she opened her eyes she no longer saw the shattered image of herself. Whole, and unblemished, an eleven year old Harry Potter stood looking up at her, smiling…

Hermione's deepest, most desperate heart's desire was not to be with Ron, Rose and Hugo. It wasn't even to be with Harry, not in that way.

It was to see him happy, and healthy, and safe. In the mirror, there was no Dark Lord out for his blood, no nasty propaganda drive by the Ministry to smear his name, no Hogwarts High Inquisitor doing her best to destroy his spirit, no cruel son-of-a-bitch daring to perform Memory Charms upon him…

He was safe, and as happy as she had ever seen him. Her eyes began to sting, and she forced herself to look away from it, knowing that all was lost.

Now that she had seen him, like that, she knew that she would do anything, give anything, to make it come true, give anything to protect him…

"_Forgive me_," she breathed, then turned around and exited the office, slipping through the department unseen as she made her way to the lift, her movements slow, deliberate, silent.

Hermione thought one last time of Ron, and Rose, and Hugo. Her life with them… it was the way things were meant to be, she told herself. She had to have faith that she would see them again, that it would all turn out that way again.

To the Department of Mysteries, then. She could delay no more. And as she made her way through the level's labyrinthine entrance, the doors revolved all around her, making it impossible for her to turn back even if she had wanted to.

She had to be careful, she thought, as she set out on the first leg of her journey. She mustn't be seen, mustn't be stopped. She couldn't afford to lose this, her one opportunity to make it all right.

Stealth.

Stealth was key.


	9. Chapter VII

**Chapter VII**

**The Moment / The Confrontation**

**Disclaimer:** It's J. K. Rowling's world, I'm just playing in it, no copyright infringement intended.

**Author's Note:** Kudos to everyone who guessed that the artifact Harry had been repairing had been the Mirror of Erised. Special shout-out to etfrompo, who called it all the way back in Chapter II, despite my best efforts to keep things vague and unpredictable.

This is it, guys. The moment we've all been waiting for. We're about halfway through it all now. If it hasn't been apparent until now, this is an M-Rated story, and that'll become obvious over this and future chapters. And for those of you who are interested in such things, the story's title comes from this chapter's epigraph. Enjoy!

**Soundtrack Note: **Harry and Hermione, from the Half Blood Prince soundtrack. If you listen to just _one_ of the songs I post in these soundtrack notes, **make it this one**. I defy anyone to listen to it with a good pair of headphones on and not be utterly convinced that Harry and Hermione are meant for each other by the end of it. When Ginny Kissed Harry doesn't even come close.

* * *

"Time is the school in which we learn,

Time is the fire in which we burn."

-Delmore Schwartz

She was crying again, and it infuriated him.

Harry knew it wasn't fair of him, _knew_ he was being a prat, knew that the locket's influence wasn't helping matters, but Merlin help him…

He wanted to slap her.

He wanted to grab her by her shoulders and shake her furiously until she just stopped crying.

He _hated _the sound of it. It tore him up inside, knowing that there was nothing he could do to ease her heartache. She'd been this way for days, ever since Ron had left.

Ron.

Ever since he'd stormed out on them, his name had been more unmentionable than Voldemort's.

_We thought you knew what you were doing… We thought Dumbledore had told you what to do… We thought you had a real plan!_

That's what stung him the deepest. Not that his best fr—_former _best friend had abandoned him, abandoned _Hermione_, when he had _known_ how she'd felt about him…

It was that the bastard had been _right_.

Dumbledore had left him with virtually nothing. They had discovered one Horcrux, but they had no means of destroying it: The others were as unattainable as they had ever been. Hopelessness threatened to engulf him. He was staggered now to think of his own presumption in accepting his friends' offers to accompany him on this meandering, pointless journey. He knew nothing, he had no ideas, and he was constantly, painfully on the alert for any indication that Hermione too was about to tell him that she had had enough, that she was leaving.

He couldn't stand to think of it. He was terrified of it, really. The idea of losing her. Well, further losing her. He'd already lost her, long before they'd set out to track down the remaining Horcruxes, hadn't he?

And the man she'd ended up loving instead had walked out on her. It made the blood in his veins _throb_, to think of how alone she must feel. Ron gone, her only other companion a burden, the Chosen One, the deluded messiah, dragging her further and further from her loved ones, in a futile gesture that was sure to get them both killed eventually.

He despised himself for it.

She was crying again, and it _maddened_ him, not because it was the most painful thing in the world for him to bear, seeing her hurting and in pain, but because there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it. He couldn't go to her, and put his arm around her, give her a shoulder to cry on, squeeze her hand tightly in his and tell her everything was going to be ok. He wanted to, _Merlin_, how he wanted to, but it wasn't his role to play, and he knew it would only make her cry harder.

He wasn't her—what? Boyfriend? Sweetheart? Declared? No, that person had gone, left her behind, and Harry was no knight in shining armor ready to swoop in and save the day. It was all he could do to not snap at her when she cried, he hated it so.

It was his deepest fear, he knew, seeing her suffer. If he were to go for a stroll in the woods tonight and stumble upon a boggart, it would not take the shape of a dementor. It would take the form of Hermione Granger, crying her eyes out, asking him why he'd ruined her life.

He'd always been terrified of seeing her in pain, been willing to throw himself at a mountain troll just to keep her from it, but never, ever had he been so helplessly afraid of her. He'd been touched by it before, when she'd been Petrified, and when she'd been cursed by Dolohov at the Department of Mysteries, but there had always been _hope_ before, hope that things would get better.

And hope was getting scarcer and scarcer by the day out here.

He'd taken to gazing at the Marauder's Map when she wasn't watching, taking it out simply to gaze at Ginny's name in the girl's dormitory, hoping she was alright.

But it wasn't Ginny's suffering that made him go weak at the knees at the very thought of it. He tried to convince himself that it was just a matter of proximity, that he was worried more about Hermione's state of mind because she was here with him. He wanted to believe that he would feel differently if Hermione were away at Hogwarts and it was Ginny here at his side instead. He most definitely wanted to believe that his feelings for Hermione were entirely platonic, had always been platonic, that whatever feelings he'd felt for her last year had been pushed aside, were entirely gone and would not be returning.

But he thought of the way she'd cried over the summer when he'd said something thoughtless about Moody's death, and how it had been _Ron_ to reach her side first, who'd put his arm around her and comforted her… And he hadn't been able to understand at the time the way he'd turned red, his face burning, as if he'd been _angry_ at his friend for making her feel better… why would he be mad about a thing like that?

And later, at Bill's wedding, he had seen her dancing…

For a moment, he'd flashed back to the way she'd looked at the Yule Ball. The way she'd looked in his arms, as they'd danced… she had looked so beautiful that night…

No. Always. She had always been that beautiful, and he had meant it when he had told her so. It was hard to think around her, had been for years, and while things had gotten much, much worse since Yule Ball, he'd realized that he had always felt that way for her, he just hadn't realized…

It had stung him deeply, the realization, because it was not him she was laughing with, twirling around with on the dance floor, but _Ron_, and his face had turned fiery crimson again and he'd suddenly felt very uncomfortable about the way he'd kissed Ginny, earlier that day…

It had been Ginny he'd pushed her away for. He'd seen the way his two best friends behaved around each other, saw through the bickering and caught the glances they gave one another when they thought the other wasn't looking… And as much as he'd wanted to let Hermione know the way he had felt about her, the thought over her lying in the hospital bed, insides all torn up because of _him_, was too recent, too fresh in his mind's eye. He'd noticed how gorgeous Ginny had become, and focused his energies upon her, someone who didn't fill him with so much confusion, so much regret…

Hermione's sobs were dying out now, with the light of the evening sun as it sank beneath the horizon. She was exhausted, and would soon collapse into ill dreams.

He'd be lucky if he fared even half as well.

He was tired, and the muscles under his eye spasmed uncontrollably whenever he felt particularly weary, but he needed to stay up to perform the watch, and sleep had not come easy to him for quite some time now anyway.

He just had too much to think about. It hadn't been so bad, when Ron had still been there—well, it had been bad, what with the lack of food and progress and Ron's miserable temper driving them both mad—but it had been _easier_. There was Ron and Hermione, and then there was Harry. Hermione was Ron's, even if they hadn't bothered to work out the details of it. With Ron at their side, Harry was able to look at their poorly concealed glances at one another or at the way he pulled her into his arms when she was upset, and while it bothered him, it defined the boundaries, and he'd needed that. Hermione was his best friend's girl, and that was the end of it. He'd never cross such a line, never in a million years.

And then Ron had left, and it was only then how much he realized how desperately he _wanted_ to cross that line. It would never happen; he continued to hold himself back, partly out of a lingering sense of loyalty to Ron that was fading fast, but mostly because of Hermione's devastation. She was all torn up, and complicating her life with unwanted advances would be… _cruel_.

No, her heart belonged to Ron. It was written all over her face.

There had been a time, he mused, when he might have been able to win her for himself, but that time had long since passed, if indeed it had ever really existed. That insight made him feel like he'd been slugged in the gut. He'd missed out, and now she was on the verge of abandoning him as well—he'd seen the way she'd whisper with Ron when they'd thought he wasn't there, the way they'd fall silent when they realized he was approaching. He'd heard Ron's rant, heard her all but confess that she was disappointed in him too.

He tried to convince himself that he'd be better off without her, that she'd be safer away from him, and he would finally be able to move freely without being overly concerned for her protection. But that was crap, and he knew it. He didn't have the slightest idea where to begin, with or without her there, and he knew ultimately that it would be _her_ brilliant mind that put the pieces of the puzzle together and came up with a solution, provided them with their next move.

He needed her here, and not just for her brilliance.

He loved her.

Merlin, when had it all gotten so _complicated_?

It was dark out, now, and he sat in the tent entrance, wishing he did not have to stay up to keep watch. Nightmares would be better than this, another night wide awake, thinking of nothing but her…

He knew they could never be together, he'd accepted that almost as soon as he'd realized that that was what he really wanted. She loved Ron. He knew that her heartache was just as bad as his, but despite the fact that she was more vocal with her tears, he refused to believe that she was any worse off than he felt. One, he didn't want to even imagine her experiencing pain so unimaginably deep it exceeded that which he felt right now. And two, at least Ron was out of sight. She wasn't confined in the tent with the object of her affections, forbidden fruit just out of her grasp.

_God, did I really just compare her to forbidden fruit_?

He felt like hitting his head heavily against something, like a thick book. _Hogwarts, A History_ would do nicely, he thought.

He didn't do it of course. The thumping would wake her, and she needed her sleep.

Unexpectedly, he felt an overpowering wave of drowsiness pass through him. He was not looking forward to tomorrow, for tomorrow would be the exact same as today, and yesterday before that… futile attempts to figure out a way to find where Dumbledore might have hidden the sword, even futiler attempts to persuade himself he would ever be alright with being just friends with Hermione.

Unable to remain sitting upright any longer, he dragged himself over to one of the lower bunks. He would just rest his eyes for a minute…

He was growing weaker with each and every day they spent together, and he was afraid that soon he would lose control and do something desperately stupid, like kiss her or blurt out that he loved her or something equally moronic. He knew that the next time she cried, or the time after that, when he finally was pushed past the breaking point… he knew that his resistance would crumble, and he would have no choice but to put his arm around her, to hold her tightly to him, to tell her how much he loved her.

He wished that he were stronger. That he had the strength to resist his feelings for her, that something would change and he'd be able to look at her again without having to catch his breath. He wanted to be able to go over to her again and comfort her, without feeling guilty for wanting her so intensely. He wanted his feelings to _go away_, to go back to feeling nothing but a brotherly fondness for her.

He wanted to be able to forget it all.

And with that last thought, he closed his eyes, and drifted off to sleep.

It was a deep, restful thing, a blissful, dreamless slumber that for the moment would not be marred by nightmares or an aching heart, and in its gentle embrace he was entirely oblivious to the man standing over him.

The Master of Death stared down at the boy's sleeping form, the Elder Wand held out before him contemplatively.

"Hello, Harry," he whispered softly.

For this was the moment it would all change forever.

* * *

She stood in the entrance flap of the tent, the cloak hanging from her hand at her side. All was still; all was quiet. The boy and the girl slept peacefully in their bunks, and it was no accident that the two were as physically far apart as possible, having chosen beds on opposite sides of the tent's magically enlarged interior.

He stood over the boy, wand in hand, just watching him.

He did not look up at her, did not cock his head as she appeared within the tent and removed the cloak, gave no sign he was aware of her presence.

Nevertheless, he began to laugh, softly, bitterly.

"I had thought someone might come back to stop me," he said softly. "But never in a million years did I think it would be you," he told her, looking up and staring her in the eyes.

He was younger than she had expected, and unnaturally thin. Somehow she had imagined him as an older man, closer to the Harry of her time than the boy lying there asleep in the bunk bed. But his hair was only slightly longer and messier than the boy's, the skin of his face only a little tighter on his cheekbones. He was not even a year older than him, she guessed.

It made it harder. Harder for him to hate him. It had been so easy to work herself up into a frenzy, when she envisioned a _man_ standing over the boy, ruining his life. Despite the fact that the culprit was still the same, the closeness of their ages tore her heart in two, to see the boy doing this to himself. But then, it could never have been anyone else. After all, he was the only one man who would go to such extreme lengths to protect her, the only one willing to damn himself in order to save her.

"You can speak freely," he told her. "They're in an enchanted sleep; they will not wake until dawn."

"Easier to keep them from resisting while you do the deed?" she snapped at him, trying to retain her anger. She needed it; it would make her strong, give her the resolve she needed to oppose him.

"I just remembered how hard it was, nights like this one," he said sadly. His shoulders and arms, covered by the cape as they were, appeared to have vanished, though his hands emerged from it lower down. It made him look odd; that was why he appeared so thin, she realized. "They could use the rest, just one night's good sleep, without the dreams."

"I can't let you do it," she told him.

"I _have_ to, Hermione. I don't have any choice."

"You don't have any _choice_? You don't have any _choice_, but to manipulate a boy's mind? To erase a part of him, steal it away and leave him to live a lie? No other options, just Oblivate him and have it over with?"

Her fury overwhelmed him. "Is _that_ what you think of me? Who do you think I am, a Death Eater? You _know _me," he told her, his voice pained. "What did you think you would happen tonight, Hermione?"

She reeled. "You performed a Memory Charm on him, made him forget how he felt…"

"No Memory Charm can erase a man's feelings for the woman he loves, Hermione," he told her sadly, as if he wished otherwise. "Even if you cast it with the Elder Wand."

For the first time, she noticed that it was the Hallow he held in his hand, not his old, familiar phoenix feather wand.

"The night of the battle…" she breathed in realization. "But… but you _did_ perform a Memory Charm. I've _seen _it, seen what it's done to him... to _you_…"

He shook his head at her sadly, as if wounded by her low opinion of him. "Do you really think me capable of such a thing? No. I came here to wake him, to tell him what will happen if he allows things to turn out the way they happened the first time."

"Hermione… I came here to give him a _choice_. To _ask_ him to give you up, to warn him of the consequences if he doesn't but to allow him to _decide for himself_."

"No…" she said, refusing to believe him. "It can't be…"

"I have no plans to perform any Memory Charms this night, Hermione." He paused for a moment, then, before continuing on with an air of sudden understanding. "But if it were me—" and here he chuckled softly "—if I agreed to let you go, I would ask to forget. I would need to remember that I couldn't be with you until the war was over, of course, but I would not want to know the _why_. I would not want to bear the knowledge of what had happened to you. Of how it was all _my_ fault. That way, the guilt would not outweigh my love for you, when it was all finished… and then I could tell you how I really felt…"

She stared at him in horror.

His misunderstood the look, continued trying to explain himself. "You _died_, Hermione. I have to do this. It's the only way to save you. The only way for us to be together—"

"I'm married to Ron. We have two children, Rose and Hugo. I'm godmother to your and Ginny's eldest son." Her voice cut him off, harsh and agonized, and the silence that followed was deafening.

He did not gape at her, his eyes did not widen, he gave no sign that he had heard her. But he did not speak for a long time, and he would look at the floor or the walls of the tent and not at her.

After the silence had stretched out long enough for her to feel compelled to say something, she saw that the Elder Wand was shaking in his grip.

"Good," he rasped at last. "Good. Ron is a good man, a better man. I'd rather you be happy, alive and happy with him, than dead and cold with me. Are you happy with him?"

"Yes." It came out a whisper, and then she could hardly see him, her eyes suddenly full of tears.

"It would have been me," he said briskly. "I would have married you, been the father of your children, had you lived."

"Harry—"

"But this way you end up with Ron, and that's good, it is, truly… I'm happy for you. You deserve better than me, anyway."

"Harry—"

"He's always loved you, you know. And I know you felt that way about him. It's for the best, really… the right man won you—"

"HARRY!"

His face snapped up at her outburst, looking at her for the first time since she'd spoken her husband's name.

"_It was supposed to be you_," she told him, and she meant it.

He looked at her as though she'd hexed him. "No, no, no—don't say that, I can't—"

"It was always supposed to be you," she told him. "This entire time, I wanted to believe that I could stop you, make things right again, and still end up with things the way they'd been in my future…"

"Things _have _to end up the way they ended up in your future," he said stonily. "Or else you'll be dead. I won't allow that to happen."

"…but it was you, Harry. It was always you, ever since the night I fell in love with you, the night you saved the Stone."

He stared at her, his face ashen.

"You can't wake him," she demanded. "You can't tell him. It will destroy him. It will destroy you. You'll live a lie, and then it will all come crashing down, and it will destroy you."

"Better me than you!" he snapped at her. "I'd rather be destroyed than watch you die ag—"

"And I would _rather_ die than see you like that again!" she screamed back at him.

They stood there in silence again for several moments, until finally he began to laugh, darkly, and the sound of it frightened her.

"They'd warned me…" he said, and he laughed again.

"Harry, you have to promise me…"

"MY WORD MEANS NOTHING!" he roared. "I swore that I would keep you safe. I failed! I told myself that I would never be with you, never put you in harm's way like that. I failed! I promised that I would fix things, that I would bring you back, and now…"

He looked at her, and she had never seen him more desperate, more fraught with hopelessness and despair, not that night in the Department of Mysteries when Sirius had died, not ever.

"I can't fail you again," he whispered.

"And I can't fail him," she told him simply, gesturing to the boy.

"If I don't do this, you'll vanish," he told her, his voice pleading. "The future you come from will cease to exist, and you'll just… disappear. Your life with Ron… your _children_… Rose, and Hugo… they will all never have been…"

The tears were sliding down her face now, hot against her skin for a split second, then followed by a sudden stinging cold in the winter air.

"I have to protect him," she whispered.

"If I don't do this, he won't be any better off! _You'll die_, and he'll travel back here, to bring you back. It will all happen all over again…"

"And he will _hurt_, and that _kills _me… but he will survive. And he will heal. _You _will survive. You _will_ heal."

His own tears began to fall as he contemplated a life without her. "I _can't_…"

"You will see her again," she told him, and she stepped over to him, wrapping her arms around him, holding him to her like a sobbing child. He was still taller than her, even with two decades on him, but he crumpled against her and she stroked his face, whispering soothing nothings into his hair, doing her best to avoid having her tears fall onto him.

"You have to promise me, Harry…" she murmured, but his breath was coming in deep, raggedy pants, and she didn't know if he could hear her.

She was aware that saying the words meant signing her own death sentence, meant erasing everything she'd ever known, the end of the life she'd lived happily for the past twenty years. But she had to say them. Had to stop him. Had to save him. Had to save him, because he was the man she loved.

_Ron, forgive me_…

"You have to promise," she told him again, as he wiped the tears from his eyes.

"You have no idea, how hard it is, to see you like this, see what you would have looked like, if you'd lived…" he said softly, staring at her with the most haunted expression on his face. He stared at her, as if he was studying her, memorizing her features, and she realized with a shiver that it was the same intense, unreadable stare that she'd seen so much upon his face since this had all begun…

"Promise me," she whispered, her arms still around his shoulders, her face mere inches from his.

"I can't…"

She silenced him, her lips pressed tightly against his, cutting him with a kiss off mid-speech. He gave her no reaction, frozen stiff, not kissing her back, and she began to feel self-conscious… she was nearly two decades older than him, two decades older than the girl he had fallen in love with, no longer possessing what looks she might have had in her youth, no longer beautiful to him…

Then he slid his arms around her waist and pulled him even tighter to him, so that she was reminded of how closely pressed up against each other the boy and the girl had been the night they'd danced together at the Yule Ball.

And then he returned her rather gentle kiss with such passion and force that all conscious thought fled and there was only _him_…

He sucked gently at her bottom lip, and when she moaned he was ready for it, nipping his tongue out to tease her own. She eagerly accepted him into her mouth, and their mouths dueled, the connection between them as intense as any link between twin phoenix-feather wands.

Merlin, the boy could kiss.

He broke from her for a moment then, running his mouth down her jaw, then down the side of her neck, sucking lightly at her flesh, switching to gentle kisses when he reached her collarbone, and it drove her mad. Her body responded to him so readily, left her tingling and lightheaded and raw, and she pulled him up by the back of his head, pulled his mouth up to hers to recapture him in a hard, fervent kiss, one he responded to hungrily.

With shaking hands, she reached for his neck, sliding off the Time-Turner there and tossing it carelessly to the side before groping at the knot of the invisibility cloak he had tied into a cape. Her fingers fumbled, unable to see what she was doing, refusing as she did to break the kiss. Finally it was off, and she yanked it from him, tossing it in a heap on the floor of the tent.

Next came his shirt, then hers. They clutched wildly at one another, hands roaming up and down the other's body as they struggled to keep the breaks between kisses while clothing was removed as short as possible. She could feel her heart pounding, threatening to explode with exhilaration as she felt his hands reaching for the back of her bra, Elder Wand discarded and forgotten, and then it was off, and his hands were upon her. She hissed at the contact between his hands and her breasts, and then his mouth was moving down her neck again, trailing kisses down her sternum, until his hands suddenly withdrew to make way for the lips that suddenly pressed themselves around her nipple. He teased her with his tongue and she sighed appreciatively, enjoying his ministrations, moaning as he moved to worship her other breast.

His mouth came back up to ensnare hers, and both sets of hands moved at once to the other's pants, teasing open buttons and yanking down zippers. She'd just begun to enjoy the welcome sensation of her bare breasts being pressed up against his chest, and then they were both frantically kicking off their trousers, both knowing that the point of no return was rapidly approaching, and neither even remotely giving a damn.

She felt a sudden chill hit around her center, and realized with a furious blush that her knickers had suddenly vanished with the faint 'pop' of wandless magic; she hadn't even begun to decide whether it had been her or him who'd wished them away, when all of a sudden she was being lifted by strong muscular arms, and pinned to the ground, his weight pressing down on her gratifyingly, his brilliant green eyes boring into hers.

It was the most highly charged, most erotically _perfect_ moment she had ever experienced.

She and Ron had always had a good sex life—had discovered themselves with each other, had been each other's firsts and onlys, had made absolutely superb love to each other, even later in their marriage—but never, _never_ had she been this turned on, this impulsive, this feral, felt this much _need_ for a man before...

_Ron_.

She felt a moment's surge of guilt at the thought of her husband, a brief instant of realization, of the knowledge that what she was about to do—what she was already doing—was a violation of the vows they had made to one another, a betrayal of her marriage and her values. Atop her, Harry's eyes seemed to dim and she realized he could see it in her face, the sudden awareness of what it was she was about to do, and he began to pull back, head turning away.

But she was too far gone, too deeply in love with the man above her, for her to stop now. Soon none of it would matter anyway, and this was her chance, her one chance to be with him like this. She seized Harry's head with both hands and pulled him to her again, kissing him hungrily, desperately. He responded in kind, and then he was pressing himself up against her core, and beginning to move…

Both groaned in completion as he hilted himself inside of her, and as one they rocked against one another, each thrust causing her eyes to roll back and eliciting a mewl of pleasure from her lips. The sensation was exquisite, and gripping his hips she urged him onward, unable to speak. Her body writhed beneath him, surging upward to match his movements, her legs wrapping tightly around him, desperate to have as much of him as possible.

She could lose herself in his eyes, she thought. Panting, moaning, their faces hung just inches apart, their breath freezing in the winter chill, their eyes wide open and gazing deeply through the window into the other's soul. Occasionally he would bring his mouth down on hers for another impassioned kiss, but such displays of affection hindered the angle of their union, and cost them the chance to state into one another's eyes, and so came only intermittently.

She ran her hands up and down his lean, muscular frame as he made love to her. She'd always—always, since she'd even been _conscious _of sex, and, as a compulsive bookworm of a girl, had been conscious of it for longer than most of her peers at Hogwarts—wanted to experience this with Harry. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined that it could possibly be this _good_, that the two would be so perfectly _made_ for one another.

Dazedly, she wondered briefly how far his future might have diverged from her own, and whether _this_ Harry might have become an accomplished Legillimens… it seemed the only possible explanation for the things he made her body feel…

_I love you_, she mouthed to him, and he leaned in and kissed her deeply.

"I love you, too," he gasped aloud.

She reached for his hand, interlacing her fingers through his own and giving him a tight squeeze. It was all becoming too much for her, and she knew mere words couldn't convey all that she felt for him in that moment.

His movements were becoming fiercer now, more and more erratic, and it was alright, because she was almost there, almost there…

"Oh, _Harry_!" she cried, and then all she could see was his eyes, dilated until there was hardly anything there but spheres of black, and the _heat_ and the _light_…

She heard his own strangled cries, the pulsing of his own release, and then his weight settled on her reassuringly, his lips finding her forehead and gently caressing it with soft, whispered kisses.

Eventually, he rolled off of her, and lay next to her on his back. She clung to his side, too exhausted, too thoroughly satiated to move; her entire body was tingling. Languidly, she looked up at him, adoring him with her eyes, a loving smile upon her face.

He did not share her smile. If anything, his face was a grim and darkened as it had been before.

She knew then that he would never speak to the boy. She had succeeded. She had saved him. Saved him, and damned herself.

"I love you," she told him again, needing him to know.

"And I love you," he answered, his voice pained, leaning in to give her one last kiss, a soft, tender gesture. "Always, and forever. No matter what happens."

And then she was gone. He lay on his back, naked, alone except for the sleeping forms of the boy and the girl, deep in their enchanted rest.

Dumbledore had told him, _she_ had told him, that he would be unable to alter the past, that time could not be so easily undone. He had scoffed at their words, arrogantly believed that _he _would be the exception to the rule, that fate or destiny did not apply to him.

Really, what had he been expecting? Fate, or destiny, or whatever you want to call it, had been laughing at him ever since he was an infant, the day Sybill Trelawney had made her prophecy during a job interview in the Hog's Head. And so right when he had been about to wake the boy, who should appear just in time to stop him but the one person on Earth who might talk him out of it?

The moment he'd realized that he couldn't go through with it, she'd vanished, just as the girl's shade had after he'd lowered the Resurrection Stone. She, and the future from which she had hailed, no longer existed. Would never exist, now that he had sworn, in his heart if not in words, that he wouldn't tell the boy what his future held.

And he had remained, for his future was the real one. His future was immovable, inalterable. She would die, and there was no changing that now.

He'd been a fool. Dumbledore, or Dumbledore's portrait, at least, had told him as much.

"_Time moves ever forward, and its course cannot be Transfigured with a wave of your wand, even if that wand is the Elder Wand_…"

He knew now that there was no force more powerful than time.

All of it would happen exactly as before.

It would begin tomorrow. Things would come to a head between the boy and the girl, all the stress, all the pressure Transfiguring them like coal into diamonds. They would find their hearts, summon their courage, make the leap and fall in love. They would endure, they would stand by each other's side, forge an unbreakable bond and forever commit themselves to their love.

And then she would die. And he would come… here. To be stopped by the very future he had been trying to create. Time was a force of nature, an inexorable power that could not be opposed. He knew that, now.

But… if he had indeed failed, then what now? Where could he possibly go? To whence he had come?

No. He could not yet endure a world in which she did not draw breath.

But he realized that he could not remain here, reliving it all over again. It would kill him, the knowledge that this would be all they would ever have.

He would roam the world, then. Visit the tallest mountains, wander the hottest deserts, cross the widest oceans… return to wander across Europe, perhaps. He thought that she might have enjoyed that.

And when she died? What then? He supposed, that once the boy went back to try what he had tried, he could then attempt to get over it all, to try to live a normal life. Grieve, and move on.

But it all sounded so hollow to him. So futile and pointless. In his heart of hearts, he knew that he would never be whole without her. Knew it so fundamentally that for a moment he gave in to his despair, laying there stark naked and covered in sweat on the floor of the tent, suddenly shivering in the cold winter air. He was lost without her.

It came to him so suddenly, so impossibly, that he almost dismissed it out of hand.

Surely it couldn't be so _simple_?

Abruptly he rose, pulling on his clothes and fetching the Hallows. Forgetting himself for a moment, he searched wildly on hand and knee for the Time-Turner, beginning to grow desperate before he realized what he was. A flick of the wand and a murmured Summoning Spell and it flew to his hand, whole and intact; it had fortuitously survived their sudden lovemaking, thought it wasn't as if he couldn't have mended it had it been smashed.

The cloak tied around his neck once more, forcing his racing mind to slow down. He needn't rush things. No, he would travel the world, as he had planned. Contemplate its majesties. Prepare himself mentally for what was to come.

There came a loud crack, and he was gone. The boy and the girl slumbered on, enjoying their first good night's rest in months.

Tomorrow, it would all begin anew.


	10. Chapter VIII

**Chapter VIII**

**The Day After**

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Harry Potter… I would be a ridiculously talented billionaire and the second richest woman in the entertainment industry. Since I am not a woman in the entertainment industry, let alone a billionaire, it should be apparent that I don't own any of the characters herein (I'll let you guys determine the ridiculously talented part, though, wink wink).

**Author's Note:** Once more unto the breach, dear readers, once more!

**Soundtrack Note: **Another Story, from the Order of the Phoenix soundtrack. It's particularly fitting since this chapter is something of a new beginning for Harry and Hermione.

* * *

"The times they are a-changin'."

-Bob Dylan

She felt awful.

It had been such a good morning, too. She'd woken from the most _wonderful_ sleep she could ever remember having. She hadn't dreamed, which she counted as a blessing.

Of late, her dreams had all been of Ron.

She hated being reminded of him. She hated it when his name was spoken, or even nearly spoken but avoided at the last moment. She hated thinking of him.

She hated _him_.

And she only hated him all the more, because she knew that deep down, she couldn't hate him.

She loved him.

When had _that_ happened?

Ron and her had always been… confusing. He had always treated her horribly, made her feel like less than nothing. He had been the boy to reduce her to tears in first year by calling her a know-it-all with no friends; the one who had been so _mean _to her about Crookshanks, before they'd learned that Scabbers was actually Peter Pettigrew; the one who had made her feel so bad about Victor Krum's interest in her, who'd had the gall to not notice her for four years and then be outraged when she'd dared fancy someone else!

He had been the one who'd broken her heart, snogging Lavender Brown all sixth year.

She hadn't been able to understand how someone so _ghastly_ had managed to hurt her so much, managed to get his claws into her heart. She couldn't figure it out, couldn't fathom how she could have fallen in love with such a _jerk_.

But of course, Ron was only a jerk some of the time, wasn't he?

Because for all of the other things, for all of his faults and the dumb, thoughtless things that came out of his mouth, he was so much _more_.

He had been the one to sacrifice himself so that she and Harry might make it on ahead first year in McGonagall's chess puzzle. When she had been Petrified, he'd bravely confronted his greatest fear in the Forbidden Forest to solve the mystery of what had happened to her. It had been he who had vomited up slugs trying to defend her honor and curse Malfoy for calling her that horrible name third year. And when he'd nearly _died_, poisoned, it had been _her_ name he'd called in his fitful sleep in the hospital ward.

And he had been so good for her, this year… always there to put an arm around her, to hold her hand, to give her a shoulder to cry on, always there to murmur soft reassurances into her hair, to be her rock…

Now her rock was gone, and she was alone.

No. Worse than alone. Trapped.

Trapped with Harry.

She'd gone to a Muggle supermarket that afternoon, unable to bear being so close to him all day again. They hardly ever spoke anymore, except to repeat again the exact same conversation they'd been having for _weeks_. Oh, there had been variations, new threads that came and went, but it really was always the same thing—Where had Dumbledore left the sword? Where do you think we should look next? No, he wouldn't have hid it there. No, I don't have any better ideas.

She was sick of it.

At the supermarket, hidden underneath Harry's Invisibility Cloak, she had stolen canned goods and tinned pears for them to eat that night. She'd left money behind, dropped it into the till as she'd left, but she hadn't bothered to add up how much the items she'd swiped cost. They didn't have very much Muggle money left, and she was bleakly certain that she didn't have enough to cover it all anyway.

So this was what she had been driven to. Stealing just to survive.

Just for Harry to survive.

Things between them were sour now. She could feel him staring daggers at her, when the sorrow and the loneliness became too much to bear and she couldn't hold the tears in anymore. Whatever friendship they had had—the friendship that only a year ago she would have sworn could never be blighted—felt like it had been damaged beyond repair by the tension caused by Ron's departure. Nights—hell, even the days, now—in the tent were filled with an overpowering _soup_ of negative emotions: his fear that she too would leave him, that she stayed with him only out of a stubborn sense of duty; her broken-heartedness, her devastation at the loss of Ron and her confusion over her residual feelings for Harry.

It was worst when he wore the locket. She knew he was thinking about leaving her behind, about stupidly packing his things while she slept and setting out alone, to spare her what they both knew lay ahead, to keep himself from endangering her any longer…

She couldn't bear the thought of him abandoning her too.

It was all made so much harder by the fact that she still loved him.

If it was only Ron she had feelings for, then things would be simpler, she thought. Still painful, but simpler. The man she loved would have abandoned her, and she'd have been left behind with a friend, only a friend, albeit one who was too wrapped up in confronting his destiny and keeping everyone he loved safe to properly comfort her.

Instead, one love had left her and now she was forced to remain alone with and in close proximity to the other.

She'd always loved Harry. And each and every passing second she spent with him in the tent she was reminded, _intensely _reminded of exactly how much she loved him. How successful she had been in the past year, sweeping her feelings for him under the rug and concentrating on Ron! She'd made her choice, understood that Harry could never return those feelings, and dedicated herself to the one who might.

And he had left.

And every time—_Every. Single. Time._—Harry looked at her with those dark, piercing green eyes, she was lost. Hopelessly, utterly lost.

Harry had never hurt her the way Ron had. The only times she'd ever been hurt, truly wounded, by him, had been in those moments she'd almost lost him. When he'd fallen off his broomstick third year. When he'd nearly died facing Voldemort's return at the end of the Triwizard Tournament. When he'd spent their last year at Hogwarts snogging Ginny.

What kind of a terrible person _was_ she, that that last one had hurt her the worst of all? Even after she'd made the decision that it would be Ron, not Harry?

And so even though she hated feeling like a thief, stealing groceries from Muggles under cover of invisibility, it was infinitely preferable to staying cooped up in the tent all day with him. She needed _space_, needed some fresh air, time away from him and the locket and all the confusion. All the fondness she felt for him. All of the pain that thoughts of him brought her. All the fierce, irrepressible need she felt to see him happy and safe, to protect him, to see things through to the end.

All the _desire_ she felt for him, she admitted to herself, shamefully.

He'd always been quite fanciable. She'd told him as much, the year before, though she'd chickened out and only made vague statements about how she was sure the female population of the school was sniffing around after him. He was quite good looking, with those brilliant green eyes and that messy spread of thick, black hair… fit, too, surprisingly muscled given how lean he was, his frame made absolutely irresistible by all that balancing on and hanging dangerously off a broomstick… who would have thought Quidditch would have made him so _sexy_? Certainly she never had, before she'd been cooped up with him for so long in this tent, unable and entirely unwilling to avoid catching glimpses of him shirtless while changing…

But while all that certainly _enhanced_ her attraction to him, she had loved him long before he'd gotten her so… Aroused? Was that the word she was looking for? Turned on? Hot and bothered?

That last one had been particularly uncomfortable of late, given the newfound closeness of their sleeping arrangements and her inability to… relieve whatever stress her proximity to him might have placed upon her.

But her heart had belonged to him, utterly and completely, ever since that night he had insisted she turn back before he strode through the flames to do battle with Lord Voldemort at the tender young age of eleven. And the love she had felt for him had only grown, each and every year since.

And as much as she tried to plead ignorance with herself, tried to insist that that was all behind her now, and that since she'd developed feelings for Ron that Harry was nothing more than a brother to her…

She was much, much too bright to fall for any of it. For the first time, she wished she was a little dumber, so that she might be able to believe her own self-delusions. Not stupid, mind you, just not so intelligent…

_Like Ginny, maybe._

She felt ashamed of herself for thinking that. She had nothing against Ginny, was quite fond of the girl, honestly, it was just that she could see Harry when he thought she wasn't watching him, staring down at the Marauder's Map, at Ginny's name, with such quiet force that it instantly made her burn inside, to see him that ardent for another woman.

What she wouldn't give to have him stare at _her_ like that, that gaze of haunting, unreadable intensity…

When at last she returned, the sun was beginning to dip and he greeted her curtly at the entrance to the tent before silently ignoring her for the rest of the evening. It _hurt_. What had she _done_? What was it that made him treat her so terribly? This was Harry, not Ron! Harry never shut her out like this, never willingly made another living person feel miserable (except Malfoy or Snape, she redacted), never acted this way unless he was feeling guilty about something.

He was being stupid again, then. Why did he always have to be so fucking_ noble_? It was always the same thing, she thought, over and over and over again, the entire time she had known him. He'd remember all of a sudden, out of the blue, about how dangerous it was for him to get close to others, about how much just _knowing _them made them all targets. Abruptly he'd put up his walls, shut them all out, and no one would be able to get through to him for _days_. It was one of the many things she loved about him—how concerned he was for everyone's safety, how much he was willing to sacrifice, to deprive himself of human contact and love just to protect them—but it was without a doubt the thing about him that infuriated her the most. Each time, she would _prove_ to him that he could rely on her, that she could take care of herself, that she could _help_ him, that she would always be there for him; and for a time all would be well, and she almost believed that she could convince him to love her in the way in which she loved him…

And then something else would trigger his defenses, some other idiot thing convincing him that he was better off alone, without anyone else around to drag down with him, and she would have to start all over again, establish all over again that she was never, ever going to leave him, that she would never, ever let him keep her away like that…

It was maddening, but she knew in her heart that she would endure it forever, put up with it as many times as she had to, because it was simply impossible for her not to. She would never give up on him. She would never stop loving him. Never stop being there for him.

Later, while she pretended to read for the ten thousandth time the copy of _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ bequeathed to her by Dumbledore, she found her gaze consistently drawn up to Harry, who lay scowling on his bunk, staring down at the Map again.

She felt awful.

It didn't matter, she realized, that she had always been there for him. Didn't matter that she always _would_ be there for him.

He didn't want her to be.

She was in love with a man she could never have. Not even because of the way he felt for Ginny, but because of the way he _didn't_ feel for Hermione Granger. Even Ginny he had broken up with, to keep her safe. What chance then did _she_ have with him then?

He'd put the Map away, then, and sighed heavily. He looked so _alone_. So weary.

She wanted to be there for him. A part of her, deep inside, screamed at her to go to him, to wrap her arms around him and kiss him deeply and beg him to let her in, let her share some of the burden, show him he didn't have to go through it all by himself.

But that was a selfish thought, she realized. Yes, she wanted to help him. But she could be there for him in other ways. Snogging him was not the way to go about it at all, not what he was looking for. That was what _she_ wanted, she had to remind herself. She had to put him first.

She watched him, as he lay there on his back, rolled over, rubbing his eyes. Her eyes shot downward at the text of the book, blushing furiously, as he looked over at her, catching her staring at him. She did not dare look up again for a long while, but when she did…

He was still looking at her.

She buried her head behind the book, terribly embarrassed. _Oh, please, Merlin, don't let him say anything…_

"Hermione?" He spoke her name softly, questioningly, and she couldn't bear to look at him, couldn't have him seeing her like this.

"Are you alright?" he asked her quietly.

She didn't trust herself to speak, then. Her bottom lip began to tremble, and she looked up over the book but not at him, at the floor, so that he wouldn't see her watering eyes, and she nodded, giving hollow, voiceless reassurance to his inquiry… she knew how he hated it when she cried…

Abruptly the sobs began to escape her, and she hated herself for it, for adding to his grief, for distracting him from the task at hand…

For loving him, when he could never love her.

No… for being _in_ _love_ with him, when he could never be in love with her.

Abruptly, she felt his presence, looming over her, and before she could fathom it he was beside her, arms wrapped around her protectively, consolingly.

"I'm sorry," he breathed, and she enveloped herself in the feel of it, the warmth of his embrace, and let her tears flush down her face.

She'd forgotten what this was like, to have someone _be there_ for her. She hadn't experienced it since Ron had left.

No, that wasn't quite right. She'd never experienced this with Ron. Because this was _Harry_. And it was so much more that what it had been with Ron.

The realization only made her sob harder.

He shushed her gently, cradling her in his arms, and every second of it only made her love him more for it. She felt ashamed, embarrassed for breaking down in front of him like this, but she couldn't stop it, didn't _want _to stop it, not with him holding her like this…

If he couldn't love her, at least she would always have this moment. His compassion and his friendship, his concern for her… she would take what she could get, knowing she would cherish it forever.

Finally, she sat their, his arm around her shoulders, gasping for breath, all cried out. She looked up at him, the regret and disgrace she felt etched on her face for sure, she thought.

"I'm so sorry, Har—"

He kissed her.

She reeled, too paralyzed to react. He was _kissing_ her. Kissing _her_.

Harry Potter, the love of her life, was kissing her, Hermione Granger.

She fought the urge to swoon and began to kiss him back, desperate to memorize every facet of this moment, the feel of his lips, the press of his hands on her sides, the sweetness of his breath, before it was yanked away from her…

Abruptly, he pulled away.

"I'm sorry," he croaked. She opened her mouth, eager to tell him that she wasn't sorry at all, but he cut her off. "I shouldn't ha—I'm sorry, Hermione. I—I can't."

He stood up and stormed out of the tent, and this time there was no one there for her when the tears began again.

Even in the moment of her greatest despair, she couldn't prevent herself from analyzing what had happened. He didn't love her. He would never love her. He had seen a friend, miserable and inconsolable, and had done his best to comfort her. And in a moment of weakness…

They'd spent weeks together, no one but the two of them, in cramped conditions despite the magically enlarged confines of the tent. He was a teenage boy, and she a teenage girl, and on top of all the other drama and _shit_ they had to deal with, there were the hormones as well. He was missing Ginny, that was obvious to see, and in a moment of weakness, his arms around her, her body pressed up against his, he had kissed her…

He had kissed her, and immediately regretted it, she thought. Why else pull away, why else tell her he was sorry, that he couldn't do it, why else leave the warmth of the tent for the brutal cold of the cold winter night except to get away from her?

She thought then of what things would be like when he returned, how awkward it would be, tonight's mistake just one more nail in the coffin of their friendship. She flopped down on her bunk and buried her head beneath her pillow with a groan.

But as dreadful as she felt, as tired and drained and hungry as her body was (she never had gotten around to making their dinner, and she certainly wasn't up to it now), she couldn't help revel in the fact that _she had kissed Harry_. Even though she knew their friendship was disintegrating, that things would never be the same between them again, that in all likelihood she would end up losing _both_ of her best friends, the only best friends she had ever really had…

She had kissed him. Or, even better, _been _kissed by him. Yes, even better, while somehow managing to be simultaneously much, much worse, given his reaction after the fact.

Surely she wasn't _that_ bad at snogging, right?

But that was the least of her worries. She knew now that even though she still loved Ron, still cared for him, she would never, ever stop loving Harry Potter. She would adore him always, and though she could never have him, she could never be with anyone else now, either. She would never get over him, never stop craving him, never be free of her desire and her confusion and her _addiction_.

She was hopelessly, irreversibly addicted to him now.

Like a moth to a flame.


	11. Chapter IX

**Chapter IX**

**Unbearable**

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing but the shirt on my back and a winning smile. Please, keep your eyes on the smile, since like I said all I'm wearing is the shirt on my back.

**Author's Note:** Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. If you haven't read it yet, you really should, and not just because it'll help you make sense of what's happening in this fic. From here on out (from the last chapter on out, actually) **Time is the Fire **will be following the second half of Hallows pretty closely. Don't worry, obviously there will be some major differences, too, and everything will be tied together soon enough, I promise you.

Once again, thank you all for the kind reviews! They give me the will to soldier on when the writing's particularly tough. Sorry for this chapter's brevity, but the next one's a beast, so don't worry, you'll have your fill of reading with the next update.

Oh, and cajuncoffee—I'd _love_ to see that flowchart!

**Soundtrack Note: **Harry in Winter from the Goblet of Fire soundtrack. Give it a listen, it's one of my favorites.

* * *

"Time is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so."

-Douglas Adams

Merlin, he was an idiot.

An idiot for kissing her, and an even bigger idiot for marching off into the middle of a freezing cold December's night without so much as bothering to put on a cloak first.

Scratch that. The worst that would come of the whole cloak thing would be him freezing to death. That didn't seem so bad, when contrasted with the prospect of returning to the tent after he'd kissed Hermione.

Why had he _done_ that?

He knew the answer, of course. The woman he loved had been crying, sobbing, not ten feet away from him, and he'd just… reacted.

It was only then, shivering ceaselessly, looking up through frosted breath at the Evening Star, that he realized that every nasty thing the murdering bastard Severus Snape had ever said about him was true. He _did _have a Messiah Complex, always had to be the hero, had to rush in and fix things…

It was the only explanation for it. He'd seen her in tears, and been compelled to save her from her sorrow. He'd swooped in, put his arms around her the way he'd seen Ron do, the way he'd always wanted to…

He'd put his arm around Hermione loads of times, but not in what seemed like ages. Not since he'd come to recognize the true depth of his feelings for her. And the moment he had felt her resting there against him… he'd lost it.

He'd leaned in and kissed her… and she had kissed him back.

And instead of the thrill that should have been shooting down his spine, he felt only disgust and self-loathing.

He'd _taken advantage _of her. He'd _known_ how torn up she was inside, how hurt and confused she had been by Ron's abandonment of them, how desperate she must be feeling for comfort and human affection. He'd known all that, and he'd kissed her anyway.

He was worse than Voldemort.

Well, alright, no, he wasn't, he could acknowledge. That might be taking things a little too far.

He was at least a Malfoy, though.

The thought left him with a bitter taste in his mouth.

He was half-convinced she'd hex him the moment he dared step through the flaps again. If she did want to hex him, he'd let her; he deserved it. But more than anything he feared what he would see when his eyes met hers. She would be distraught, he knew; one best friend putting the moves on her after the other, the one she'd really loved, had skipped out on her. She'd be feeling ashamed and guilty and confused, and she shouldn't _have to_—it was _his _fault, he had been the one to bring this all crashing down on her.

He should have just sat there and let her cry. It was the lesser of two evils.

The moment he'd gotten close to her… it was like his brain had just shut down. He'd been so _stupid_, so childish and inconsiderate of her feelings, thinking only of _his_ wants, _his _needs, not even considering how the kiss might affect her. He'd ruined whatever tattered mess had remained of their friendship, he was certain.

He wouldn't have been surprised if she'd already left by the time he'd returned to the tent.

But she had remained. Fortunately, though, she was asleep, or at least pretending to be asleep, and he was grateful for the opportunity to completely avoid their problems at least for the night.

More than anything, he dreaded looking into her eyes come morning.

So he too lay down in his bunk, for the second day in a row crawling into bed without staying up to keep watch.

Since when had Death Eaters become the least of his worries?

The thought of remaining awake to agonize over his mistake over and over again for the next several hours did not appeal to him. But he was uncomfortably aware of the fact that it wasn't just him in the tent, should one of Voldemort's cronies stumble onto their location. He had to protect her as well.

_Where was that protective instinct an hour ago, Potter_? The voice inside his head sounded disturbingly like a sneering Draco Malfoy. He felt like he was going to be ill. Nevertheless, he forced himself out of bed and took up position in the tent entrance. It was for the best. He would not have been able to sleep, anyway, he told himself. Whatever it was that had granted him such a good night's rest yesterday had not deigned to repeat the favor.

He kept guard until the sun was well up. When Hermione rose, she took over the watch wordlessly and he shuffled off to bed, grateful to delay the inevitable and finally get some rest.

Needless to say, he dreamt about her.

It was the damn locket. Whenever he wore it, he had the worst dreams.

Like most of them had been of late, this one was about her. He was chasing after her, as she fled him through a field of bodies. The sky overhead was red and stormy, and all around him was a lifeless wasteland. He looked down at some of the corpses as he pursued her, and felt absolutely no emotion when he recognized them—Sirius. Ginny. Neville. Dudley. Moody. Fred. George. McGonagall. Dumbledore.

They were all dead. And in the dream, he knew that it was because of him. He had killed them.

She was running up a slight hill, now, and looking back over her shoulder at him, terrified. She ran into the open arms of a figure there, and he could see clearly now that it was Ron, arms wrapped around her protectively, his stance firm, ready to fight for her.

With a snarl, he raised his wand at the redhead.

"_Crucio…_"

He awoke with a start. Hermione was still keeping the watch, and he'd doubted he'd gotten more than an hour or two of sleep.

Not that he wanted any more, now.

He had to do something, and soon, or things were going to completely fall apart, even worse than they already had. He resolved, then, to grasp at straws, to suggest again what seemed to him the only unexplored avenue left to them.

They didn't speak for the rest of the afternoon. He had the foresight to suggest that they take a few hours' break from wearing the Horcrux, which he hung over the end of his bunk. He waited until after they'd eaten dinner; he thought she might be more persuadable than usual on a stomach full of spaghetti Bolognese and tinned pears.

"Hermione?"

"Hmm?" She was going over the book again. He knew she was throwing herself into her research; it was her way of coping with everything that had happened over the last few months. He wished it could be that easy for him; he should have brought his copy of _Quidditch Through the Ages_.

He cleared his throat, ready to make his pitch, but she interrupted him, asked him to identify a rune for her. It turned out not to be a rune at all, but Grindelwald's mark. He kept his eyes on the symbol, not having it in him to look at her right now, after what he had done to her. He knew she was trying to avoid getting into a real conversation with him. He didn't blame her; if she'd suddenly wanted to talk to him right now, he would've been afraid she wanted to talk about the kiss too.

He filled her in on what he'd learned from Krum at the wedding. He did not mention that he'd been too busy staring at her that day, dancing happily with Ron, to pay full attention to what it was the Bulgarian Seeker had told him.

He tried again.

"Hermione?"

"Hmm?"

"I've been thinking. I — I want to go to Godric's Hollow."

She looked up at him, but her eyes were unfocused, and he thought that she was probably still thinking about the mysterious mark on the book. He looked down at the floor, unwilling to meet her gaze.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, I've been wondering that too. I really think we'll have to."

"Did you hear me right?" he asked.

"Of course I did. You want to go to Godric's Hollow. I agree, I think we should. I mean, I can't think of anywhere else it could be either. It'll be dangerous, but the more I think about it, the more likely it seems it's there."

"Er — what's there?" asked Harry.

At that, she looked just as bewildered as he felt.

"Well, the sword, Harry! Dumbledore must have known you'd want to go back there, and I mean, Godric's Hollow is Godric Gryffindor's birthplace—"

"Really? Gryffindor came from Godric's Hollow?"

"Harry, did you ever even open A History of Magic?"

"Erm," he said, smiling for what felt like the first time in months: The muscles in his face felt oddly stiff. "I might've opened it, you know, when I bought it… just the once…"

"Well, as the village is named after him I'd have thought you might have made the connection," said Hermione. She sounded much more like her old self than she had done of late; Harry half expected her to announce that she was off to the library. "There's a bit about the village in A History of Magic, wait…"

She read to him, explaining that she thought Dumbledore would have expected him to make the connection, that it was the next logical place to look.

Godric's Hollow, Godric Gryffindor, Gryffindor's sword.

Harry did not want to admit that he had not been thinking about the sword at all when he suggested they go to Godric's Hollow. For him, the lure of the village lay in his parents' graves, in the house he'd narrowly escaped death in as an infant… in the house he would have come of age in, had Trelawney never made her prophecy, had Voldemort never been born.

What would his life have been like, he wondered, if he weren't the Boy-Who-Lived? If he weren't "The Chosen One"? He'd have grown up with parents, raised by people who loved him… he'd have known his godfather Sirius all his life… he'd have gone to Hogwarts not having to worry about Dark Lords and Heirs of Slytherin and Triwizard Tournaments and Horcruxes… maybe he'd even have confessed to Hermione how much he loved her the moment he realized it, and he wouldn't be in the dreadful mess he was in now…

"…we'll have to think it through carefully, Harry." She was sitting up now, and Harry could tell that the prospect of having a plan again had lifted her mood as much as his. "We'll need to practice Disapparating together under the Invisibility Cloak for a start, and perhaps Disillusionment Charms would be sensible too, unless you think we should go the whole hog and use Polyjuice Potion? In that case we'll need to collect hair from somebody. I actually think we'd better do that, Harry, the thicker our disguises the better. . . ."

He let her talk, nodding and agreeing whenever there was a pause, but his mind had left the conversation. Already he was dreading the prospect of standing so close to her, the two of them hidden together beneath the Invisibility Cloak as they practiced Disapparating for days. He was terrified of doing something stupid again, like put his hands on her bum, or grab her by the face and snog her again. Abruptly, he stood up and moved a few paces away from her, trying to make the act look casual; being close to her made him do stupid, idiotic things.

"Harry? Why won't you look at me?"

She wasn't the brightest witch of her age for nothing.

"You know why," he told her guiltily.

"Can we just—"

"No," he cut her off forcefully. "I _really_ don't want to talk about it. I just need you to know I'm sorry, that I know I shouldn't have done that. Please don't make us go into it any more than that."

She looked then like she wanted to say something, but she stayed silent.

When she finally did speak, she said, "So the Quaffle then, that's the big red ball, supposed to get thrown through the hoops?"

He laughed, a hearty, genuine sound. He couldn't remember the last time he'd produced such a noise, so grim had the last several months been—ever since Dumbledore's death, really. He laughed, and he opened his mouth, and abruptly snapped it shut as he realized what he'd been about to heedlessly remark.

_I love you, Hermione_.

It would have been all the worse for not being a heartfelt confession, just a casual slip of the tongue. And he could see that she had seen his face change, had noticed his laughter die out and his skin go pale.

Being close to her made him do stupid, idiotic things, all right.

"I'll keep watch tonight," he told her gruffly, moving towards the entrance of the tent. "We'll start practicing for the trip to Godric's Hallow tomorrow."

"Harry—"

But he didn't reply. _Couldn't_ reply.

He couldn't bear being so close to her. It was torture.

He could hear her trying and failing to hold back her tears. He steeled himself against the sound of it. No matter _what_, no matter how hard she sobbed, he would not go to her this time. He would not hurt her any worse than he already had.

If that was even possible.


	12. Chapter X

**Chapter X**

**Survivors**

**Disclaimer: **Are these still necessary? Really? All right. I own nothing.

**Author's Note:** This one was a real bitch to write, hence the reason I've strayed from my chapter-every-day-or-so schedule the last few updates, I've been trying not to deplete my supply of reserve chapters. Sorry for the doozy of a chapter; I debated splitting it in half, but figured I would just put it all out there and put you guys out of your misery. I don't know if the update schedule'll go back to what it was, but I've already written ahead and the next chapters are coming much easier than this one. I'd love to see your reviews, guys, especially on this one—has it been worth the near-toxic amounts of angst to get to this point?

Also, say goodbye to the one-section chapter. It's just not doing it for me. I much prefer the good old-fashioned two-section chapter we've been working with for most of the fic, so that's what we'll be following for the rest of the story, with one or two special exceptions yet to come.

Alright, enough of my rambling, let's get to the fic! Or, at least, the soundtrack note.

**Soundtrack Note: **Fawkes the Phoenix from the Chamber of Secrets soundtrack, and Leaving Hogwarts from the Sorcerer's Stone soundtrack (or the Philosopher's Stone soundtrack, for my readers in other parts of the English speaking world—you have my heartfelt apologies for putting what I'm sure are Americanisms in Harry and Hermione's mouths, and for butchering the Briticisms that I do try to incorporate into the dialogue.)

* * *

"Come out of the circle of time, and into the circle of love."

-Jalal al-Din Rumi

There came a sound like a thunderclap and the two fell to the ground with a heavy thump. The mousy-looking middle aged woman had landed on top, and for a moment she lay there, the wind knocked out of her.

But the moment she regained her breath she was off him in a flash, kneeling by his side, shaking the bald man that had just saved her life.

"Oh, oh no—Harry! Harry!"

He was writhing in pain, as though he was having some sort of seizure. And the _locket_… its chain was stretched taut around his neck, pulled tight as if it were trying to suffocate him, and no amount of her tugging or yanking on it would loosen its grip…

She yelped, snatching her hands back painfully. It had _burned_ her… and a searing sound was coming from where it made contact with his flesh…

"_Diffindo_!" she cried, jamming her wand into the space between his chest and the locket. With a jolt it came loose, as did plenty of the man's skin—blood began to freely spread across his shirt.

The woman sucked in a breath and lunged for her pockets, yanking out a small brown bottle and sprinkling its liquid contents liberally onto his wound. Greenish smoke began to rise from the pierced skin, but as it faded it was clear that the bleeding had stopped. She repeated the treatment on the twin puncture wounds she saw on his forearm, where the snake had bit him...

"_Please wake up_," she whispered to him.

But he did not. He'd stopped seizing, now, but he was sneering at whatever it was he was seeing in his trance.

She lay at his side for a long while, monitoring him, shushing him when he cried out or snarled. The expression on her face was one of utmost fear. She could do nothing for him more than she already had.

Eventually, she tried to move him to the bed, but realized that she could not carry him, limp and unresponsive as he was. With a flick and a swish of her wand, she levitated him there, her posture lengthening as she strode slowly across the tent, gaining several inches of height, her hair lengthening from a rather plain, short style to a bushy, unkempt mane. So too was the man beginning to transform as she laid him down into his bunk, thick black curls sprouting from his bald head, a lightning shaped scar carving itself into his forehead…

He groaned and hissed, uttering vile, sibilant sounds that she knew were in Parseltongue. She put her hand to his forehead, and conjured cold water and a sponge; he was burning up. Softly, she pressed the sponge to his face, wiping him gently.

She stayed with him like that for hours. He would have brief periods of relative peace, and then he would writhe again, calling out in rage, his voice high and cold and sinister. Sometimes he would whimper, and she knew that in those moments he was himself again, and it was in those moments that she would grip him the tightest, pressing her lips firmly to the space between his eyes, whispering to him how much she loved him, begging him to come back to her.

The sun just beginning to bring the earliest light of dawn into the sky, he began to speak, his voice shrill and afraid.

"_Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry_!"

He gave no pause, continuing on right away, but now his voice was harsh and cold, and with a start she realized exactly what it was he was dreaming: "_Stand aside, you silly girl… stand aside, now_."

"_Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead_—" he moaned in reply.

"_This is my last warning_—"

"_Not Harry! Please... have mercy… have mercy… Not Harry! Not Harry! Please—I'll do anything_—" he nearly screamed.

"_Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!_" snapped Lord Voldemort, in Harry's voice. "Avada Kedavra!"

Tears fell from her eyes and onto his face, and hurriedly she wiped them away with the cold, damp sponge, horrified at what he had been forced to relive.

"No…" he groaned, and this time the voice was neither Voldemort's nor Lily's but his own.

"Harry, Harry, you're only dreaming! You're all right!" she urged him, trying to save him from his visions.

"No…" he called again, stirring in agitation.

"Wake up! Harry, please! You have to wake up!"

"No…" he moaned once more.

"Harry, it's all right, you're all right!"

"No… I dropped it… I dropped it…"

"Harry, it's okay, wake up, wake up!" she begged.

His eyes opened.

"Harry," she whispered. "Do you feel—all right?"

"Yes," he lied, but there was no concealing how deeply rattled he was.

He looked around, staring at her, and then the pile of blankets atop him, and finally the walls of the tent. "We got away."

"Yes," said Hermione. "I had to use a Hover Charm to get you into your bunk, I couldn't lift you. You've been… Well, you haven't been quite…"

His eyes found the small sponge in her hand.

"You've been ill," she finished, her voice taut with unspoken emotion. "Quite ill."

"How long ago did we leave?"

"Hours ago. It's nearly morning."

"And I've been . . . what, unconscious?"

"Not exactly," she said, uncomfortably. "You've been shouting and moaning and… things…"

She began to babble, then, nearly incoherent. "I couldn't get the Horcrux off you. It was stuck, stuck to your chest. You've got a mark; I'm sorry, I had to use a Severing Charm to get it away. The snake bit you too, but I've cleaned the wound and put some dittany on it…"

Shaken, the two filled each other in on what exactly had happened. She brushed off his apologies for dragging them to Godric's Hollow, saying that she had thought it was their only option too. She felt revolted, nauseous, when he told her that the woman they'd thought had been Bathilda Bagshot had actually been her corpse, occupied by the snake, Nagini… But always she was aware of the sudden, incredible tension between them, the sudden urge she had to either leap up from the bed and put as much space between her and him and his shredded shirt as possible, or to throw herself at him and smother him with deep, passionate kisses.

"Harry, no, I'm sure you ought to rest!" she scolded him, when he threw back the covers and started to rise.

"You're the one who needs sleep. No offense, but you look terrible. I'm fine. I'll keep watch for a while. Where's my wand?"

She did not answer, she merely looked at him. It had never even occured to her that they would come to this conversation, so desperate had she been to keep him alive, to see him wake…

"Where's my wand, Hermione?" he asked again.

She bit her lip, and tried to fight the tears that began to swim in her eyes. "Harry…"

"Where's my wand?"

She reached down beside the bed and held it out to him.

A pain went through her soul as she saw the look of panic and fear flash through his eyes as he saw the broken, mangled wand, nearly severed in two, dangling only by a thin thread of phoenix feather.

And when she asked her to repair it, her tears began to flow freely when it was clear that she could not. "Harry," she whispered. "I'm so, so sorry. I think it was me. As we were leaving, you know, the snake was coming for us, and so I cast a Blasting Curse, and it rebounded everywhere, and it must have—must have hit—"

"It was an accident," he said, but his voice was empty, mechanical. "We'll—we'll find a way to repair it."

"Harry, I don't think we're going to be able to," she said, the tears trickling down her face. "Remember… remember Ron? When he broke his wand, crashing the car? It was never the same again, he had to get a new one."

His eyes flared at the mention of the other's name. "Well," he said, in a voice too highly charged to be matter-of-fact, "well, I'll just borrow yours for now, then. While I keep watch."

Her face glazed with tears, she handed over her wand, and he left her sitting beside the bed, his body language making it clear that he wanted nothing more than to get away from her.

She collapsed onto his bunk; she did not cry. She had no more strength for tears, nor the will to do anything but lie there in complete and utter defeat.

She had failed him. She had cost him his wand, deprived him of the weapon that would save him from death at the hands of Lord Voldemort. He had tried to hide it from her, but he had been so _angry_ with her, so full of disgust and aversion that he couldn't bear to even sit next to her. She had become a burden.

She lay there, in utmost despair, for an unknowable length of time. Unable to cry, unable to think, unable to do anything but breathe and _hurt_. She wished she could cease doing both.

She wished she would just _die_.

How could it have ever have come to this? How could she fall so deeply in love with a man who would never love her in return? How could Ron, sweet, loyal Ron, have left them like that, to fend for themselves in such an impossible situation? How could the three of them, best friends since first year, survive through so much only to fall apart now? How could she have broken his wand? How could she have failed him?

Her heart was already broken; had been broken for years and irreparably shattered these last few weeks, especially these last few nights. But this… this was a new low, as if the crushed remnants of her heart had been Transfigured into molten lead. She felt as if she could feel nothing at all. No more shame, no more guilt, no more pain or fear… no more longing for Harry…

She was deluding herself with wishful thinking, of course. She could feel _all _of it, every damned drop of the grief that filled her so to the brim, that threatened to slosh over the top and stain the tent floor…

Vaguely, she was aware of her chest heaving, of slight, nearly inaudible gasping noises escaping from her as she choked back sobs, but that was so far away from her right now… She was a million miles away, the thoughts back with a vengeance now, furiously asking herself the same questions over and over again, entirely incapable of processing her surroundings, which was quite alright, thank you very much, the tent was the last place she wanted to be right now anyway…

She was pulled back, finally, by the fiery sensation of two burning eyes boring into her.

Harry stood in the entrance to the tent, but he did not face outward, keeping the watch. He was staring at _her_.

She sucked in a breath. His eyes… his _eyes_…

They were, in a word, _terrifying_.

Something was wrong, terribly wrong. In all her years of knowing him, she'd always been able to read the face of her best friend. But today… his face was a mask, an intense, unreadable mask. His eyes, those eyes, burning into her with such _force_, as if he were seeing her for the first time, and trying to make sense of what it was that was before him…

She didn't have the strength to speak, didn't have enough energy to sit up and ask him what was wrong. At least, she didn't think she did.

He took a single step towards her, a wooden motion that abruptly ceased, and she could see him, as if he was restraining himself, holding himself back, away from her.

She did sit up now, dragged herself back to the headboard of the bed, as far away from him as she could manage. Her head snapped around, looking for the locket. Was it still in her bag? No, it had to be, he definitely wasn't wearing it.

Then _why_…

A chill went down her spine as she saw how he looked at her again. Surely he wasn't _possessed_…

He lurched forward, and then suddenly he was hurrying across the space between them, quickly sitting himself next to her on the bed. She pulled away, afraid, and she saw a flash of pain in his eyes as she did so, and then he looked down at the floor.

"Harry?"

He did not reply, but slowly he brought his eyes up to hers again and she could see that they were as watery as her own had been when she'd revealed the broken wand to him. The molten lead at the bottom of what had once been her heart boiled and bubbled… despite her best efforts, her most fervent efforts, each time she saw him in pain her own suffering deepened, a pattern that had held up far past what she had believed herself capable of enduring.

There was something else in his eyes, though, and he opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it again. He did not speak for a long moment, but when he did, he said, "Hermione?"

In one word, he had encapsulated all the regret and confusion and fear that she felt, and instantly she knew that he felt it all too.

She stared at him breathlessly now, her eyes locked on him, and she knew that if she were somehow to see her own reflection in that moment, her eyes would be the same as his. Too many whirlwind thoughts, whirlwind feelings, too much love and guilt and heartache and apprehension…

The fear she thought she had felt, mere moments ago when she had first seen him watching her like that, was made as nothing by the sheer terror she felt exploding all over her right now. Terror, at the thought of him being about to do what she wanted him to do, about what that would mean for their friendship; even greater terror, at what it would mean if he did _not_ do what she wanted him to do.

He leaned into her, close, so that he was almost laying atop her, his face mere inches away from hers.

"_Please_," she breathed, her voice pleading with him, begging. The message could not have been any clearer. _Don't you _dare _kiss me and leave me again_.

He kissed her. She kissed him back.

He didn't leave her.

* * *

He felt like he'd lost a piece of himself.

Only this time it wasn't the bones in his arm that had been vanished by Gilderoy Lockhart, but his wand. It had been the only one he'd ever owned, the source of the first real magic he'd ever performed (setting a boa constrictor on Dudley at the zoo suddenly didn't seem to count, standing there in the tent entrance). He could still see the red and gold sparks that had shot out of its tip the first time he'd ever held it in his hand and given it a good wave… even back then it had been a part of him, a part of him that knew him better than he knew himself… Red and gold sparks… Gryffindor red, Gryffindor gold.

It had been the wand he'd jammed up the troll's nose when it had gone after Hermione in the girl's toilet. It had been the wand that had knocked Draco Malfoy on his arse in Lockhart's Dueling Club second year. It had been the wand he'd cast his first Patronus with.

And it had been the wand which had saved his life, the link between the twin phoenix feather cores overpowering Voldemort's attempt to murder him, the wand that had conjured up for a brief moment the souls of his parents, allowing him to make it to the Triwizard Cup and back to safety…

He held it now in his hand, broken and dangling uselessly. He had Hermione's wand in his other hand, but it felt cold to the touch; cold and unwelcoming, unreceptive to his possession of it. That was what Ollivander had told him, of course, on his eleventh birthday, the day he'd first gotten his wand…

"_No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand_."

It was as if the best part of his magical power had been torn from him. He felt raw, and exposed, and like he'd lost a piece of himself.

How was he supposed to continue onward, crippled as he was like this? How was he supposed to duel Death Eaters? Find Horcruxes? Defeat Voldemort?

He fought the urge to give in to his despair and cackle madly at the absurdity of it all, the hopelessness. He had been left with nothing.

No. He hadn't been left with nothing.

He still had her.

He still had her, and he had done everything, _everything_, in his power to drive her away from him. He had betrayed her trust, abused her friendship, said terrible, horrible things to her, things he hadn't meant…

He had taken advantage of her.

That was the worst thing he had ever done. Worse even than ripping Malfoy open last year with Snape's _Sectumsempra _spell. It was the same thing, really, only this time he had done it to Hermione's heart.

Outside the winter wind was howling and the noise bothered him immensely. He couldn't understand why, the sound was the same as it had always been, there wasn't anything different about it; but it made him feel uneasy all the same.

He had kissed her, something he would never forgive himself for, and still she hadn't left him. He realized now that she would never leave him, because that was the kind of woman, the kind of friend Hermione was. She would _always_ be there for him, always _had_ been there for him, unlike Ron— it had been _her_ who had saved Sirius' life by using her Time Turner to break the law, it had been _her_ who had stood by him when everyone else thought he'd put his name in the Goblet of Fire… it had been _her _who'd decked Draco across the nose third year…. that last one had been for Hagrid's sake rather than his, but the thought of it always made him smile, nonetheless…

God, she was amazing.

He knew now that the fear that had been gnawing at his insides for weeks had been all over nothing. She wasn't going to leave him like Ron had. She would never leave. No matter how badly he treated her, no matter how badly he hurt her feelings—hell, he had _kissed _her, the one possible thing that could make things between them worse than they already were—no matter how much danger he put her in, _she would never leave_.

He realized this, and as impossible as it should have been, he loved her even more for it.

Loved her for it, and hated himself. He didn't deserve such a good friend. And he would _never_ deserve to have anything more than that with her.

How could he have caused her so much pain?

As he stared out into the snowy plain, filled with self-loathing, the wind picked up briefly, roaring, then died down entirely, leaving nothing but empty silence. _That_ is what had sounded so odd, so unsettling to him earlier, about the wind—the fact that that was the only sound there was.

For the first time he could remember since Ron had left them, she was not crying herself to sleep.

He listened, his eyes closed, his head tilted, searching for the faintest of sounds. But he heard nothing. Good, he thought. Perhaps she'd just gone to sleep… maybe without the Horcrux's influence, she wouldn't feel so much pain, just for one day… maybe she'd feel better in the morning, just a drop better than the misery that he'd consigned her to live in…

He hated the thought of her in pain.

Everything was just so _wrong_. He'd ruined it all, messed things up, gotten his priorities entirely backwards. He'd been so focused on what _he_ had to do, on how _he _would find the sword, find the next Horcrux, defeat Voldemort once and for all. He'd completely ignored his friends, been short with them, let his temper erupt far too many times…

He'd driven away Ron. He'd driven him away, breaking Hermione's heart in the process, and he hadn't let up on the abuse since then. It was a testament to the kind of person she was, infinitely better than himself, that she remained, true to her word that she would stay with him until the end, until every last Horcrux had been destroyed and Voldemort was gone. She would live up to her vow, even when surely she must be hating him more and more with each and every passing day.

And then, just as he'd been about to relax, and resign himself to keeping a decent watch for once, trying not to berate himself any more than he already had…

He heard it. Finally, from somewhere behind him came soft gasping sounds, grief-stricken and in distress. The sound of Hermione, desperately trying not to hyperventilate.

For a moment, he was glad his wand had already been broken. If he could have, he would have snapped it in two in his hands, just then.

He turned, slowly, haltingly. He knew he shouldn't. Looking at her, seeing her… it would only crumple his already shattered resolve even further, make him do some other stupid, cruel thing to her. If he loved her at all, he'd turn his back on her, ignore her so that he wouldn't make her hurt even worse by trying to 'fix' it all…

It horrified him, what he saw. She looked as though there were a Dementor standing over her, draining her dry of every happy memory, every cheerful thought she had ever had. She looked pale, and cold, and as though she knew nothing but despair.

She looked eerily like Cedric Diggory, the way he'd looked when he'd fallen in Little Hangleton's graveyard, like a puppet whose strings have been suddenly, viciously severed…

He didn't want to think about her like that. _Merlin_, he didn't want to think about her like that…

If he ever lost her, he didn't know _what_ he'd do. He knew now she'd never leave his side voluntarily, but that still didn't mean he wouldn't get her killed. Hell, he'd almost gotten her killed tonight. If it hadn't been for her own quick rescue of him, _he_ would have arrived, gotten there in time to kill them both…

He didn't give a damn about dying himself; his own death meant nothing to him, not when her life was at risk as well.

He just stood there, staring at her, the two halves of himself warring within. One wanted to go to her, hold her in his arms again, tell her how much he loved her, kiss her, make everything better… the other half, the _sane_ half, knew better, knew that he could never, _ever_, do that, it would destroy her, destroy him, knowing that he had done that to her…

She was beautiful, and it tore him up inside, to see such beauty look so cold, so pained. Her face was not red; she did not cry. Rather she looked like she had been carved from pale marble, still as a Muggle statue. The only sign she was even alive was the rising and falling of her chest, and the occasional gasping breath.

For all of it, she looked only more stunning, more lovely.

There was beauty, intense, earth-shattering beauty, in her sorrow. And he would have given _anything_ to free her from it.

Once again he told himself that he should turn his back, wait until she finally did fall asleep, then pack his bags and take the locket and leave. He'd go wandless, he couldn't leave her out here without a wand… and somehow he'd figure out a way to carry on without her, to go it alone… to spare her from it all…

But he knew that he would never do such a thing. Never be able to leave her, the same as she would never leave him.

And he knew that he was entirely incapable of turning his back on her as well, having seen her like this.

For what seemed like the thousandth time since the night he had kissed her, he wondered what it would have been like, had he not been singled out by destiny. This time, however, there was no anger, no resentment, only sad, quiet curiosity. If he'd never been "The Chosen One"… would Hermione and him still be friends? Would he have had the guts to tell her how he felt before it was too late? Would she still have chosen Ron over him?

He had no idea how long he'd stared at her for, but finally she opened her eyes and looked up at him. She let out a shocked breath, her gaze wild, meeting his eyes in bewilderment.

He was frightening her, he realized. Her eyes were wide, her mouth opened into a perfect little 'o'… he couldn't look away, couldn't drag his eyes off of her. _Merlin_, she was beautiful.

Of its own accord, his body lurched forward a half-step, trying to close the gap between them. She scurried back, pressed up against the headboard, afraid of him, and he reeled.

_No!_ he screamed at himself. _Turn around and walk out of the tent right now, Potter!_

But she was like a magnet, pulling him ever closer, and it took all the strength he had not to throw himself at her side, begging her forgiveness.

He was scaring her, he could see it in her face. Why?

He knew why. He had hurt her, and she was terrified he was going to do it again.

And that was exactly what he was about to do, he realized.

No longer able to hold himself back, he quickly made his way to the bed, resolved to make this only an apology, to explain everything to her. He wouldn't hurt her again. Hurting her would be like hurting himself, and he couldn't take any more pain, especially not hers. Her suffering was a thousand times worse to him than his own.

When he sat on the bed, she pulled away, as far as she could get from him. _Ouch_. He finally looked away, ashamed, staring down at the floor, fighting the tears that began welling up in his eyes.

"Harry?" Her voice was like an angel's, and instead of the revulsion or fear he'd expected to hear from her, he heard only concern.

Slowly, haltingly, he brought his eyes back up to hers. Those eyes… he could spend a lifetime staring into her eyes.

He opened his mouth, trying to get it all out, to confess everything, tell her how he felt, tell her how sorry he was, tell her he already knew she would never feel the same way, to ask if she could ever forgive him for the way he'd treated her… but the words piled up, jammed together on their way to his mouth, and nothing could get out…

After a time though, he was finally able to say, "Hermione?"

It was all he could do to force out that one word, and he tried, he tried _desperately_, to pour his soul out into those four syllables, to make her understand, to bare all of his regret and confusion and fear to her. He felt like an idiot. How could anyone make him so thoroughly speechless, like a first year rendered tongue-tied by a pretty prefect? How could anyone make him feel like this?

Of course, if anyone could, it _would _be her, alright.

She stared at him, breathlessly, and the _look_ she was giving him…

It was downright _unnerving_.

She was staring at him, her eyes dark and intense, consuming him, and his heart surged into his throat. That was not the look a girl gave to a boy she was disgusted with.

Had he been staring at her like this the whole time? No wonder she'd been afraid of him.

His pulse felt like it was pounding a thousand times per second. Surely she couldn't…

Of its own accord, his body once again began to move towards her. And this time, he was in complete agreement with it. And for the record, from what he saw of her, Hermione seemed to approve of the decision too.

He leaned into her, close, so that he was almost laying atop her, his face mere inches away from hers.

"_Please_," she breathed, her voice pleading with him, begging. And his heart leapt for joy, because finally, _finally_, she'd made a request of him that he could fulfill, eagerly, keenly fulfill…

He kissed her. And again, she kissed him back.

And _this time_, he did not pull away. And neither did she.

He kissed her, poured out his love for her, for what seemed like hours… _and she returned it all in kind_.

How was that even possible? He was _Harry Potter_, for Merlin's sake. Nothing _ever _went so thoroughly his way.

Her lips pressed up tightly against his, her hands snaking around his neck and clinging to him, and together they worked out their feelings for one another, expressed themselves beyond words, through impassioned, amorous snogging.

It was she who slipped her tongue through his parted lips, she who was the aggressive one, kissing him frenziedly, full of need, as if she were afraid he'd leave her again.

He broke the kiss, only for a moment, to lean his forehead against her and stare into her eyes. Silently, urgently, he tried to _make_ her understand, to show her that they were the same, that he was no different than her.

_I will never leave you_.

Her eyes widened, and _now_ the tears began to mist them up, and then he was kissing her again, and nothing had ever felt so good to him as her body, pressed up and snuggled against him. She was shaking, slightly, and he could hear her gasp in between breaks for air, feel the hot tears that slid down her cheeks…

In his time with Ginny, he'd grown accustomed to having the girl not burst into tears when he kissed them, but he knew he would gladly give up on that progress if it meant getting to snog Hermione Granger.

And to his amazement, when she finally broke the kiss, she did so because she could no longer hold in her _laughter_.

She snorted, outright guffawed, and when he saw that her tears were of deep, hysterical delight at the absurdity of it all, he began to giggle as well.

Still clinging to one another, they both laughed their _arses _off, and just when one of them would begin winding down the other would laugh even harder, and that would set them both off again. By the time they'd finished, his sides ached. And the pain in his heart was gone.

"Harry, there's—"

He cut her off with a quick kiss. The pain in his heart was gone, but the guilt remained. He needed to come clean, tell her everything, get it all off of his chest.

"Hermione Jean Granger, I love you. I've loved you for years. I'm sorry I never told you, it just seemed like things were so—you were _hurt_, that night, at the Department of Mysteries, and I couldn't let that happen to you again—I'm so sorry that I pushed you away…"

She looked then like she wanted to say something, but he kept on, needing to clear the air. "That's why it _killed_ me so much, to see you so upset, since Ron left—I was jealous, it hurt to see you feel that way about someone else—and I know that he's the one you chose, I do, it's just that… I can't keep it from you anymore, I don't _want _to keep it from you anymore… you're the only one who's _always_ been there for me… not Ron, not even Dumbledore, just you… only you… and I can't keep any more secrets from you anymore…"

"Harry, I—"

He carried on, rambling now, and he knew it, but couldn't bring himself to stop. "…I can't keep any more secrets from you… third year, when Scabbers disappeared, before we knew what he really was, that he'd faked his own death—I never said anything, but I'd agreed with Ron, I _totally_ thought Crookshanks ate him…"

She dropped her jaw, but he didn't give her time to respond. "And that one summer, before sixth year, when the four of us played Quidditch… I was glad you weren't on my team, you were absolutely _terrible_…"

She laughed again, and the sound was like nectar to him. "Harry, I—"

Again he cut her off. No more secrets. He had to tell her everything, _needed_ to tell her. "And it shouldn't have been Ron at the bottom of the lake, for the Triwizard Tournament… I think they only picked him for me because Krum fancied you, I thought it was you they'd taken when I saw you… you were the one I'd sorely miss, it was always you, who were nearest and dearest to me… I'm sorry, Hermione, I am, _so sorry_, but I love you, I've always loved you, and I know that its crazy, that I shouldn't, but I don't want to _not_ feel this way… Please, forgive me, I've tried to fight it, tried to get over it, but I can't, I won't, I'll never be able to stop loving you—"

"Harry, I love you."

She said it quickly, before he was able to go off on another wild tangent.

"Y—you _do_?" he asked, and his voice sounded so _stupid_ in his ears that it made him cringe, just a little.

"Always," she said breathlessly. "Since the night you saved the Stone."

He looked at her, astounded. A second later, his face twisted up in exasperation. "You loved me _all this time_, and you never said anything? Merlin, Hermione, you could have put us both out of our misery!"

"Why didn't _you_ tell _me_?How was _I_ supposed to know you felt the same way? If I told you when I first knew it, you would've looked at me like I'd sprouted antlers. When did you first feel it?"

"I think it was the night of the Yule Ball, honestly," he told her, a little guiltily for berating her when he never _had_ given her any signs of his true feelings for her. "But I don't think I realized exactly how head over heels I was for you until this last summer, and by then it was too late…"

"Yeah, well, it's even later, now, and things seemed to turn out alright, haven't they?" she said, a sly grin splitting her face for what seemed like the first time in months.

He was unable to share in it, though. "What about Ron?" he asked her, solemnly.

"I loved him," she told him, sincerely. "I still do, I think, but…"—she took his hand in hers and squeezed it tightly—"It's _always _been you, Harry. And even if he'd never left, even if we'd gotten together after all this is over, made things work…"

She leaned in and whispered into his ear. "_I would still belong to you_."

It sent shivers down his spine, and they both knew the time for talking was over.

The snogging recommenced.

Oh _Merlin_, why hadn't they done this before? She made the softest, most irresistible noises, as he kissed her… her teeth nibbled seductively at his bottom lip, and he did his best to block out wondering where she'd learned to do that—they had Horcruxes to find, making a detour to Bulgaria to cast the Bat-Bogey Hex on Krum would be an inexcusable waste of time, no matter how emotionally satisfying it might be…

He was just kissing his way up her neck, enjoying feeling her squirm as he pressed his lips to her earlobe, when she suddenly pushed him away from her. He looked at her, hurt and bewildered—she hadn't changed her mind, had she?

She looked like she'd just realized something brilliant. "It's Christmas day!" she exclaimed excitedly.

"So?" he asked her, unimpressed. The only present he wanted to unwrap was lying right in front of him…

"I just think we ought to be doing something more in the spirit of the holiday," she said cheekily, and took her wand back from him to give it a swift flick and a jab at the top bunk above them.

Hanging right where she'd conjured it stood a small sprig of what could only be mistletoe. He looked at her in amusement, then adoration.

He knew then that he would always be hers, no matter what lay ahead.

And when she tugged her down atop her again, claiming his mouth with hers assertively, he knew that he really, _really _wouldn't have it any other way.


	13. Chapter XI

**Chapter XI**

**Tested**

**Disclaimer Haiku:**

I don't own Harry /

He belongs to Jo Rowling /

Fun to pretend, though.

**Author's Note:** Thanks for the kind reviews, guys. I _thought_ you all might like that last chapter. ;-)

**Soundtrack Note: **Possession, from the Order of the Phoenix soundtrack.

* * *

Who forces time is pushed back by time; who yields to time finds time on his side.

-The Talmud

Hermione awoke with a wide, all-consuming stretch, delighted by the feel of Harry's arm draped over her side. She emitted a noise rather more like a squeak than a yawn, which she found slightly remarkable if not entirely surprising. She was of course well familiar with the sound, but couldn't actually remember the last time she'd heard it coming from her own, or for that matter anyone else's, throat.

It was the squeak of an utterly contented witch.

Even wearing the locket was not such a drag anymore. Their tempers remained shorter whenever one of them had it around their neck, but with everything out in the air… The past three days had quite simply been the best of her life, and she was more than willing to put up with a slightly crabby Harry when it was his turn to bear the Horcrux, and knew full well that he felt the same way about her.

Now that they were together, not even the locket could truly dampen their spirits.

She hadn't felt this happy in years.

The best part wasn't even all the snogging—although she was _more_ than pleased with all the snogging—it was the fact that they were _speaking_ again. And boy, did they ever speak. Over the past several months, especially after Ron had left, it had gotten to the point where they'd hardly ever opened their mouths, except for the barest minimum of necessary planning, such as where they were to move the tent next, or arranging watch schedules.

Since they'd—what? Gotten together? She liked the sound of that. Yes… since they'd _gotten together_, they'd stay up for hours, just talking. Well, yes, and snogging, but honesty, there was lots of talking also.

They of course still discussed their plans regarding the Horcrux hunt (what a ridiculous way for him refer to it as, she thought—it was not some sort of Easter Egg scavenger hunt!), but now when that conversation ran out of steam (as it always did when neither of them had any brilliant ideas about what to do next), they always had something else to talk about. Last night they'd discussed how they thought their classmates were faring back at Hogwarts, what they planned to do for their first date in Diagon Alley after the war was over, and what careers they might be interested in once they both had the chance to live a normal life.

He'd even asked her to explain her fascination with Arithmancy to him, and he'd patiently endured her raving on about Pythagoras and the numerical theory underlying the cosmos. In return Hermione had allowed him to rave on about Quidditch, something she felt particularly magnanimous about, and somehow she'd allowed herself to get roped in to having Harry give her private lessons on the sport after they'd defeated Voldemort.

Somehow, she got the feeling those lessons wouldn't actually feature much Quidditch at all.

She was cold. Snuggling her back and bum more comfortably up against Harry, she began to giggle uncontrollably, trying to stay quiet so as not to wake him while her imagination was assaulted by the wildly unbidden image of Voldemort forging his remaining Horcruxes out of Easter Eggs, and leaving clues to their hiding places all over England for intrepid Horcrux Hunters like themselves to puzzle over.

They'd talked about Dumbledore, too. She knew Harry was feeling angry at and betrayed by the former Headmaster, as if he'd abandoned them by dying. He'd only gotten madder after reading through that book she'd found at Bathilda's house, the one written by that horrible Rita Skeeter. She agreed that it had some pretty terrible things about the Headmaster written in it, but she was quick to remind him that they'd always relied on Dumbledore before, and that she was hardly going to start taking Skeeter's word over his, no matter how mad they might be at the wizard. Harry still wasn't feeling very forgiving, but she was relieved that they didn't argue about it, and even when he was wearing the locket he went out of his way to just agree to disagree rather than get into a row over it with her. She found it quite endearing, to be honest, the way he was already trying to spare them from fights.

They still hadn't progressed past long, heated snogs whenever they felt like it—which, in all fairness, was quite often—even though they'd fallen asleep holding each other the last three nights, but she had to admit, the idea held some appeal. Harry's hands roamed a bit further now than they had that night they'd kissed for the second time, the night they'd declared their feelings to one another, and she kind of liked the feel of it it. It all seemed so deliciously _normal_, worrying about whether she should let him "get hit by her Bludgers", as she'd overheard Ron and some of the other more juvenile Gryffindor boys refer to it in the common room before.

Come to think of it, she wasn't very good with any of these Quidditch slang terms, she thought. "Getting the Quaffle through the hoop" was obvious, but she was only vaguely aware of what "Blagging his Beater's Bat" was supposed to mean, and whether "Flacking" was demeaning or not. "Haversacking" just sounded painful.

She had the feeling, though, that when and if she was ready to let things progress that far, Harry would excel at finding her Snitch.

The mere thought of it made her blush furiously.

So far, though, he'd been nothing but the perfect gentleman, and that was hardly surprising. This was _Harry_ she was talking about here—_her_ Harry, she thought, breaking into another irrepressible smile—and despite a tendency to rush into things without fully thinking things through, he'd always been thoughtful and considerate where she was concerned, and she loved him for it.

He was stirring behind her now, and he began planting light kisses on the back of her neck. She squirmed, ticklish there.

"Morning there," he told her, his voice dripping with satisfaction as he brought his other arm under her so he could squeeze her to him more tightly.

"Morning," she sighed back. She could still scarcely believe it. She'd wanted to be Harry Potter's girlfriend since she was twelve years old, and now she had him.

It was better than she'd ever hoped, aside from the dismal tent and the seeming hopelessness of the Horcrux Hunt.

"I should get up and take the first watch," he murmured into her ear.

She thoroughly disagreed with him, and wiggled closer to the warmth of his body and emitted a low whine to tell him so, burying her head beneath her pillow.

"Hermione!" he chastised her. "We haven't been doing a very good job keeping watch the last couple nights, we should at least do our best as long as we're awake!"

"It's more comfortable this way!" she protested, her voice muffled since she was speaking into her pillow, but he was already twisting and rising, lifting the pillow for a moment to plant a peck on her temple before getting out of bed.

"I'll see if I can make you breakfast, and then I'll keep lookout for a few hours."

She grunted. As much as she hated being deprived of his body heat, she knew he was making a good point. Over the past couple days, they'd both thought they'd heard someone outside the tent, and had Apparated to a new location, the Forest of Dean. She'd chosen the spot—her parents and her had gone camping there, once.

She could _feel_ him smirking at her laziness and general craving to stay in bed with him all day, even with her head still under the pillow.

She'd get him back, she knew. Later, when he'd sat down in the tent entrance, he wouldn't be able to keep his hands off of her, not once she plopped herself down in his lap and started kissing him…

The thought made her smirk, and made the thought of getting up to eat whatever miserable breakfast Harry was preparing for her more bearable. Harry was quite a good cook, she knew, he'd been forced to pick it up during his years with the Dursleys, but there was simply nothing out here in the dead of winter to cook up, nothing she had any real desire to eat, at least. Perhaps they were due for another trip to a Muggle supermarket.

"Uh, Hermione? I could use some help. Could you conjure up some more of those bluebell flames?"

She rolled over with a groan. Typical man. They'd been together three days and already he was showing his ineptitude in matters of hearth and home.

A thrill went through her at the thought of sharing a hearth and home with Harry, but she pushed it aside. That was still a long ways off, if it would ever happen at all; no need to get ahead of herself.

She threw her pillow at him as she rose, and he snatched it out of the air laughing before it got the chance to hit him. Damn those Seeker's reflexes.

All was not wasted, though, for as he laughed she could see him smile, really smile, and in that moment she knew deep down that he loved her every bit as much as she loved him. She hadn't seen him smile in months, not since this damned Horcrux Hunt had begun. Up until the last three days, that is.

What was it about his smile that she found so captivating, so enthralling, she wondered.

It was as if every time she saw it, a little more of her belonged to him. But only _as if_, she told herself, because she already knew that her whole being already belonged to him, and that that had been the case for far longer than the past three days.

He did have good teeth, she supposed, but she knew that that wasn't it.

Even if she was a dentist's daughter, twice over.

It was that his was the most beautiful smile she had ever seen, the same smile he had given her the first day back from their first day home from Hogwarts… she'd already fallen for him at that point, but if she hadn't, it would have happened then anyway, when he'd given her the most dazzling grin, simply beaming from ear to ear, and whispered to her and Ron that the Dursleys weren't aware he couldn't do magic at home, and that he was planning on having a lot of fun with Dudley that summer…

Just thinking about it filled her with a pleasant, bubbly sensation. That memory had been one she'd always used to conjure a Patronus with. But as she hopped up from bed to go throw her arms around her new boyfriend, laughing the whole way there, she knew that that memory would be facing stiff competition from the memories she'd been making with him the last three days.

She wasn't sure if it was actually possible to conjure up a Patronus the size of a Hungarian Horntail, but she thought that if it were she might finally be up to the challenge.

* * *

That night Harry sat on an old cushion in the tent mouth and stared out into the darkness with a wry grin. Hermione was asleep now, which was good news for the both of them, because if she weren't, she'd be doing her damnedest to make keeping the watch downright impossible for him. From experience, he knew that whenever things seemed to be going his way for a while, the universe would step in to right any karmic imbalance—and since he was so ecstatic over the thought that he and Hermione were together, he knew that if there was ever a time for Death Eaters to stumble on to them, it would be now, and so he'd insisted that she get some rest and that he keep a proper night's watch for once.

Of course, wanting to keep her safe was not the sole reason he was feeling grateful she was asleep right now. Since they'd told each other how they'd felt, Hermione had seemed to feel the need for him to reassure her exactly how much he loved her every couple of minutes, and her preferred method of receiving said reassurances was for them to snog the hell out of each other.

With a smirk, he thought that she resembled no one so much as Lavender Brown in that. Not that he'd ever tell her that to her face—he'd rather face down an enraged Nundu than tell Hermione that.

Now, he was more than willing to participate—what healthy red-blooded young wizard wouldn't cast an Unforgiveable Curse on his own grandmother for the chance to snog Hermione Granger?—but it was what happened _after_ that was the cause of his discomfort. She'd taken to cuddling up beside him in his bunk when it was time for them to go to sleep, and _that_ was starting to get him a bit flustered. He hadn't even had the willpower to keep himself from kissing her, and that was before they'd even been together—if he'd been hoping that making things between them official would strengthen his resolve, then he was sorely disappointed. His desire for her was only increasing with every kiss, every touch, every soft sigh she released in her sleep while the two of them were, for all intents and purposes, spooning.

He prayed she hadn't noticed the Beater's Bat he got every time they did that.

He'd tried to think back to the discussions the other boys had had in the dorm over the years, about what they'd done or wanted to do with the girls they fancied. Despite the fact that he'd had the Romilda Vanes of the world throwing themselves at him from the moment his voice had deepened, and had dated Ginny for a few months, he wasn't terribly experienced. He'd never received much in the way of "the talk" from the Dursleys, and it wasn't like he had any older brothers like Ron, so pretty much everything he knew about… playing Quidditch came from Ron, Dean, and Seamus—Neville never had much to contribute other than bewilderment, and he knew Fred and George too well to take anything they said without several very large grains of salt.

He knew the mechanics of it all, of course, but he'd never touched Ginny's… hoop, and the farthest they'd ever gotten was that she'd put his hands on her Bludgers without a bra on. She'd always been very insistent on where she had wanted him to touch her, even going so far as to grab his hands and place them on her chest or bum when he was overly hesitant to make a move. That had been… nice, but things with Hermione were different. He didn't want to move to fast with her. Ginny had been a girlfriend, but Hermione…

Hermione was _Hermione_. And that was so much more, in his eyes.

He doubted she'd appreciate much the kind of talk that the boys had spouted in his dormitory, anyway. "Haversacking" just sounded painful.

So now he sat in the tent entrance, wearing every sweater he owned and still shivering. A cold shower might not be an option out here in the Forest of Dean, but surely this was the next best thing, right?

Except even out here he couldn't really get her out of his head.

After Godric's Hollow, he felt as if he was recuperating from some brief but severe illness; even with Hermione and his new relationship, he didn't feel quite up to his old strength. Their escape had been so narrow that Voldemort somehow seemed closer than before, more threatening. He still mourned the loss of his wand, and had no ideas on how to get it repaired or obtain a new one. He was using Hermione's for now, and from the moment they'd told each other of their love it had responded to him nearly as well as his own used to, but it wasn't the same, would never be the same.

Being with Hermione cheered him immensely, made carrying the locket hardly a burden at all, but he still didn't know what to do. Despite the fact that he now had a—what? A girlfriend? A beloved? A Hermione?

A soulmate?

Despite the fact that he now had _her_… he still didn't know what to do next. Where to go, where to find the sword, where to find the remaining Horcruxes, how to finish Voldemort once and for all… Plan-wise, he was no better off than he had been a week ago.

He'd been a bit on edge today, even with Hermione to distract him this morning while he'd tried to keep watch. Someone had been out there, in the snow, before they'd Disapparated to the forest. He was half-convinced they'd been followed, even though the other half was pretty sure he was just being paranoid. He could hear noises, the sounds of movement, mostly caused by the wind but others almost assuredly from whatever forest creatures inhabited the wood around them.

He remembered the sound of a cloak slithering over dead leaves many years ago, and at once thought he heard it again before mentally shaking himself. Their protective enchantments had worked for weeks; why should they break now? And yet he could not throw off the feeling that something was different tonight.

His thoughts drifted to Hermione, and what things might be like for them after the war was finally over. Whatever other insecurities he might have, he knew in his very bones how deeply she loved him, as deeply as he loved her. He was not worried about her losing interest or only caring about him for his fame; she was Hermione. And his only concern now was for her safety. She had to make it through all of this alive. She had to be protected.

And once it was all over…

He'd just wondered idly how much an engagement ring might cost him in Diagon Alley when a bright silver light shone through the trees ahead of the tent. He hopped up, raising Hermione's wand, ready to strike out as the source of the light stepped into plain sight.

It was no Death Eater.

It was a gleaming white doe, emitting the most brilliant radiance he had ever seen, as if someone had plucked the moon down out of the sky and placed it gently down before him. It was without question the second most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life; the first most beautiful thing was of course drooling on her pillow somewhere behind him.

The doe seemed familiar to him, somehow, intensely and fundamentally familiar, as if he'd known it all his life and was just now meeting up with it again after a long journey spent away from home. She reminded him of Hermione, somehow, and not just because of its incredible beauty. It was something about the way the creature held itself, stared at him with those peaceful, long-lashed eyes, the way it radiated kindness and wisdom and _hope_.

There was something else, too, though… She reminded him of something, something from when he was little, something that he knew would drive him mad unless he could remember what it was, exactly…

Neither of them moved for a long moment, but finally the doe turned round and trotted away.

"No, come back!" he called, and was already setting off after it, not a moment's hesitation slowing him down. He _knew_. He _knew_ that this thing had come to him for a reason. That it was here to show him something, give him the answer he sought so desperately.

Why was it so damned _familiar_?

He chased after it through the trees, the snow hindering his pursuit, the cold filling his lungs and making his fingers sting. Intellectually, he knew that he could be walking right into a trap, that it could be bait of some kind to draw him out into an ambush. But in his heart, he knew that that was not the case.

No dark witch or wizard could conjure up something so beautiful, so pure.

Finally, the doe stopped and, with one last long look at him, vanished, at the side of a small, frozen pool. He blinked, his eyes unused to the sudden darkness, and immediately he regretted not waking Hermione. Was he about to be attacked?

No ambush came, though, and when he lit Hermione's wand, he could see the glint of a great silver cross speckled with deep red beneath the cracked black surface of the ice.

_The sword_.

How was this possible?

Try as he might, it would budge when he summoned it to him. And it appeared to be at the very bottom of the pool, far out of reach. How could he get a hold of it, then?

"_You might belong in Gryffindor,  
Where dwell the brave at heart,  
Their daring, nerve and chivalry_  
_Set Gryffindors apart._"

Well, he _had_ been wanting a cold shower…

That was it, then. With a stab of Hermione's wand, and a hurried "_Diffindo_," the ice shattered with an enormous crack, the sound like an army of Disapparating house-elves. The waters below were freed, and chunks of black ice bobbed in the newly opened pond. It did not appear that deep, but it was deep enough that he had no other choice.

He set Hermione's wand down on the snow, still lit, and without wasting any more time, jumped in.

The cold was _excruciating_. He'd never felt such cold in his entire life, not even when a hundred dementors had stormed the Hogwarts Quidditch Pitch… and he was only up to his shoulders in the water.

Water this cold should have the decency to remain solid, he thought, or rather he would have if he were capable of rational thought at the moment. As it was, he forced himself to dive, and the cold burned so badly he might as well have plunged into a lake of fire. He groped blindly, fingers felling around the bottom of the pool for the sword.

They brushed past something hard and he closed his fingers around it desperately; it was the hilt. Just as he began to yank on it though, something wrapped itself around his throat…

The cold has been so intense that he'd already felt like his lungs and throat had closed up, and he hadn't been able to breathe anyway, underwater, but a terrible choking feeling hit him instantly, and he would have gagged if he could. His hands, slow and useless, lunged for his neck, tugging desperately at whatever it was that was trying to strangle him.

It was the locket chain. The Horcrux was killing him.

He thrashed wildly, desperately, trying to gain a little breathing room, but it was to no avail. It was constricting him so tightly that he knew it wasn't just air that he needed to worry about—he'd pass out from the blood flow to his brain being cut off before he suffocated. He tried to kick the bottom of the pond, propel himself out of the water and onto the snow, to break the surface and suck down oxygen, only half-aware that clearing the water wouldn't break its stranglehold on him, but it was already to late, the darkness of his vision was strangely dimming, going from black to blacker than black… strange, that he'd never seen that shade of blacker than black before… little lights were popping in his head, and the strong arms that were reaching for him, wrapping around him, were surely Death's…

AIR! Rasping, retching, he gasped greedily, lungs filling with precious, life-preserving air, and he swore to himself he would never take another breath for granted ever again…

Hermione had saved him, then, for what had to have been the zillionth time… but those deep coughs did not sound like Hermione, and to judge by the weight of his savior's footprints in the snow…

"Are—you—_mental_?"

It was only the fact that it was Ronald Weasley's voice that he was able to force himself into an upright sitting position and stare up at him numbly.

"Why the _hell_," panted Ron, holding up the Horcrux in one hand and the sword of Gryffindor in the other "didn't you take this thing off before you dived?"

He had no answer. He was deeply, deeply divided. One half of him wanted to clamber to his feet, reach out for his former friend, and slam his fist into the redhead's nose, hopefully breaking it.

The other half wanted to grab his best mate into such a fierce hug the likes of which neither had ever seen, and never let him go.

It took him only a moment to realize that he wasn't deeply, deeply divided at all; the half of him that had wanted to punch him was actually only a tiny sliver, the remnants of the anger he'd felt at his friend's abandonment of them and whatever residual jealousy he had left that Hermione had once fancied Ron. But all that was gone now, wiped away by the knowledge that Ron had returned, and indeed, dived after him and saved his life.

It was only the intense, hypothermia-inducing cold that prevented him from wrapping his arms around his best friend. Instead, rather stupidly, he began yanking of sweater after soaked sweater, trying to free himself from as many wet clothes as he could, as if that would somehow make him warmer.

"It was y-you?" Harry said at last, his teeth chattering, his voice weaker than usual due to his near-strangulation.

"Well, yeah," said Ron, looking slightly confused.

"Y-you cast that doe?"

"What? No, of course not! I thought it was you doing it!"

"My Patronus is a stag," Harry told him tiredly.

"Oh yeah. I thought it looked different. No antlers."

"How come you're here?"

Apparently Ron had hoped that this point would come up later, if at all.

"Well, I've—you know—I've come back. If—" He cleared his throat. "You know. You still want me."

In the silence that followed, Ron looked down at his hands. He seemed momentarily surprised to see the things he was holding.

"Oh yeah, I got it out," he said, rather unnecessarily, holding up the sword for Harry's inspection. "That's why you jumped in, right?"

"Yeah," said Harry. "But I don't understand. How did you get here? How did you find us?"

"Long story," said Ron. "I've been looking for you for hours, it's a big forest, isn't it? And I was just thinking I'd have to kip under a tree and wait for morning when I saw that deer coming and you following."

The two looked around, trying to locate the source of the silver doe Patronus, if it indeed had been a Patronus. Harry dashed wildly across the snow to a shadowed space between two nearby trees, the most obvious place to lie in wait if you wished to observe someone picking up a sword you'd left behind for them at the bottom of the pool. There was no evidence that anyone had been there, no footprints, no retreating figure hurrying away into the darkness of the forest. That was alright, honestly; Harry had moved as much to keep his limbs from freezing solid as to look for the source of the vision.

They both looked at the ornate silver sword, its rubied hilt glinting a little in the light from Hermione's wand.

"You reckon this is the real one?" asked Ron.

"One way to find out, isn't there?" said Harry.

Ron offered him the sword.

"No, you should do it."

"Me?" said Ron, looking shocked. "Why?"

"Because you got the sword out of the pool. I think it's supposed to be you." He did not know how he knew, only that he did. Ron had obtained the sword; he was its rightful wielder. It had to be he who struck down the Horcrux.

"_Open_," he commanded, and Ron stared at him, because he was speaking in no human tongue, but rather hissing in the language of serpents.

The locket opened with a click, and the blazing, angry eyes of Tom Riddle glared at them from within each little glass window.

"Stab!" demanded Harry, holding the locket steady on a rock for Ron to end it.

His friend raised the sword with shaking hands. The point dangled precariously over the locket, and Harry braced himself, ready for the damned thing to die.

But then it spoke.

"_I have seen your heart, and it is mine_," the Horcrux hissed.

"Don't listen to it!" he said harshly. "Stab it!"

"_I have seen your dreams, Ronald Weasley, and I have seen your fears_. _But I have seen much, much more than that, since you left…_ _You are _too late_!_"

Its voice sounded all the more horrible for the awful glee with which it spoke.

"Stab!" shouted Harry; his voice echoed off the surrounding trees, the sword point trembled, and Ron gazed down into Riddle's eyes.

"_You are already betrayed, by the only two who could betray you so thoroughly… Your so called friend, as if you would ever be worthy of his friendship, and the girl who prefers him to you_…"

"Ron, stab it now!" Harry bellowed: He could feel the locket quivering in his grip and was scared of what was coming. Ron raised the sword still higher, and as he did so, Riddle's eyes gleamed scarlet.

From the locket rose the ghostly images of Harry and Hermione, like memories risen out of a Pensieve.

"Ron!" shouted Harry, but it was too late, for Riddle-Harry held the other's attention.

"_You could never have deserved her_," it sneered. "_Never given her what she truly needed… never possessed anything worth her interest… never pleasured her, as a woman deserves to be pleasured… the way I have pleasured her, from the moment you departed…_"

"_You're pathetic, Ronald Weasley_!" cried the Riddle-Hermione, both more beautiful and more terrible than the real Hermione. She swayed, nude, at the side of Riddle-Harry, who looking like some sick parody of a Greek god gripped her possessively to him, grinding against her. "_Poor, pathetic Weasley, most talentless and pointless of your line… Who could look at you, who would _ever_ look at you, beside Harry Potter? What have you ever done, compared with the Chosen One? What are you, compared with the Boy Who Lived?_"

"Ron, stab it, STAB IT!" Harry yelled, but Ron did not move. He stood there, transfixed, his eyes wide, the Riddle-Harry and the Riddle-Hermione reflected in them.

"_The saddest thing is, the Mudblood's a better fuck than you'll ever know, Weasley,_" jeered Riddle-Harry, and Riddle-Hermione laughed.

"_I was on him the moment you shut the tent flap behind you,_" she cackled. "_I knew that once you were gone I could finally know what it was to have a _real _man_."

"Ron…" Harry begged, his voice desperate. "It—it wasn't like that… I swear…"

Ron glared at him, sharply, his eyes filled with pain and rage and seething, seething jealousy. "'Even if he'd never left, even if we'd gotten together after all this is over, made things work…'" he quoted, his voice low, dangerous.

"_I would still belong to you_," Ron and the Riddle-Hermione said as one, the latter laughing maniacally, as if it had just stated the punch line to a joke it had been leading up to all evening.

So he knew, then.

But _how_? How had he heard her say that?

"Ron—?" Harry asked, staring in horror at the red gleam in his friend's eyes as lifted the sword high above his head, ready to bring it down for a killing stroke.

The sword flashed, plunged: Harry threw himself out of the way (too slowly!), there was a clang of metal and a long, drawn-out scream. Harry whirled around, slipping in the snow, wand held ready to defend himself: but there was nothing to fight.

The monstrous versions of himself and Hermione were gone: There was only Ron, standing there with the sword held slackly in his hand, looking down at the shattered remains of the locket on the flat rock.

Slowly, Harry walked back to him, hardly knowing what to say or do. Ron was breathing heavily: His eyes were no longer red at all, but their normal blue; they were also wet.

Despite the deathly cold, neither of them moved for a long time. Ron was trembling, but it had nothing to do with the temperature. The two remained there in silence, until Harry began to lose feeling in his extremities.

"It could have been you," he said quietly at last. "It _would_ have been you, if you hadn't left. What the locket said wasn't true. She _did_ love you… still loves you. _You could have made her happy_."

Ron did not respond, but turned his face away from Harry and wiped his nose noisily on his sleeve. Together, the two hauled themselves to their feet and eyed each other warily.

"I'm sorry," Ron said in a thick voice. "I'm sorry I left. I wish…"

Harry realized his friend was not only apologizing for having abandoned him.

He'd had his chance with her, and he'd walked out on it. If Harry had been in his position, he might have chosen to fall onto the Sword of Gryffindor.

But Ron must have been made of sterner stuff than he, for carrying on, he said, "I know I was a—a…"

He looked around at the darkness, as if hoping a bad enough word would swoop down upon him and claim him.

"You've sort of made up for it tonight," said Harry. "Getting the sword. Finishing off the Horcrux. Saving my life."

"That makes me sound a lot cooler than I was," Ron mumbled.

"Stuff like that always sounds cooler than it really was," said Harry. "I've been trying to tell you that for years."

Simultaneously they walked forward and hugged, Harry gripping the still-sopping back of Ron's jacket.

"And now," said Harry as they broke apart, "all we've got to do is find the tent again."

But it was not difficult. Despite the fact that he was very likely suffering from both frostbite and hypothermia, the two reached the tent much too quickly for Harry's liking.

His best friend was once more at his side. And that was as it should be, he really was glad for that, honestly…

But a part of him did _not_ want Ron and Hermione interacting again, not in the slightest.

What was that about? Harry knew how Hermione felt about him. He knew she wouldn't jump into Ron's arms and leave him broken hearted and alone. She was _his_, and he was hers. It wasn't jealousy; there was nothing to be jealous of.

But a part of him didn't care what he knew about Hermione. It only cared that Hermione _had_ loved Ron… _still_ loved Ron, he'd said it himself only minutes ago, and more importantly, Hermione had said so the same night she'd claimed that she'd always love him…

So as they entered the tent, gloriously warm, illuminated by the bowl of bluebell flames sitting in the center on the floor, Harry realized that he had a choice.

Ron or Hermione.

Ron was in love with her, as much in love with her as he was. Harry wasn't a big enough prat to deny another man's love for her; he knew Ron felt the exact same way he did. To see them together—actually see them together, not just a twisted, evil caricature conjured up by a Horcrux… it might destroy him. Losing Hermione to him had to have been Ron's deepest fear, for the locket to prey on it so viciously, and now that fear had gone and come true. Could Harry give her up to protect his friend?

The answer, he knew immediately, was no. He loved Ron; he was the closest thing Harry had to a brother. Hell, he _was_ Harry's brother. He would do anything for Ron, even die for him.

But he couldn't give up Hermione. That just wasn't possible, like asking the moon not to share the sky with the sun. They belonged together.

She was fast asleep, curled up under her blankets, and she didn't wake, even when he called her name several times.

"Hermione!"

She stirred, then sat up quickly, pushing her hair out of her face. "What's wrong? Harry? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he told her, voice grim. "There's someone here."

"What do you mean? Who—?"

She saw Ron, who stood there holding the sword and dripping onto the threadbare carpet. She stared at him, as if seeing a ghost.

"He knows," Harry told her quietly.

"How did you find us?" she asked quietly. Harry had been half expecting her to go ballistic on Ron, maybe even trying to hit him. Instead, all she did was stand there like a statue, pale but unruffled.

Wishful thinking, he supposed.

Ron told them everything. About how he'd run into Snatchers almost immediately after leaving, hunters of Muggleborns and blood traitors, and had only just barely escaped. About how he'd tried to return to them right away, but that they'd already moved on. How on Christmas morning he'd heard their voices coming from Dumbledore's Deluminator, and how it had lead him to them.

That's how Ron had known what Hermione had said that day, back with the Horcrux, Harry realized. That's how he'd known he'd lost her.

It had been Ron they'd been hearing outside the tent the last few days, trying to find them.

"I still couldn't see you, so I just had to hope one of you would show yourselves in the end—and Harry did. Well, I saw the doe first, obviously."

"You saw the what?" said Hermione sharply.

They told her everything, right up to the point when they'd opened the locket.

"Then what happened?" she asked, when it became clear neither of them wanted to continue on with the tale.

"Ron stabbed it with the sword."

"And... and it went? Just like that?" she whispered.

"Well, it—it screamed," said Harry with half a glance at Ron. "Here."

He threw the locket into her lap; gingerly she picked it up and examined its punctured windows.

"Did you just say you got away from the Snatchers with a spare wand?"

"What?" said Ron, who had been watching Hermione examining the locket. "Oh — oh yeah."

He tugged open a buckle on his rucksack and pulled a short, dark wand out of its pocket. "Here. I figured it's always handy to have a backup."

"You were right," said Harry, holding out his hand. "Mine's broken."

"You're kidding?" Ron said, but at that moment Hermione got to her feet, and he looked apprehensive again.

Hermione put the vanquished Horcrux into the beaded bag, then climbed back into her bed and settled down without another word.

Ron passed Harry the new wand.

"About the best you could hope for, I think," murmured Harry.

"Yeah," said Ron. "Could've been worse. Remember those birds she set on me?"

"I still haven't ruled it out," came Hermione's muffled voice from beneath her blankets.

It should've been funny; the two of them should've chuckled at that a bit, or at least shared a smile.

It wasn't, though, and they didn't.

After he'd changed into some warm clothes, Harry lay awake in bed, unable to find sleep. He was glad, very glad to have Ron back. It wasn't until the moment he'd seen him again that he'd realized just how much he'd been missing him while he'd been away. But it bothered him that Ron's return meant having to choose between his friends. He knew they only hope their friendship actually had of surviving rested in Ron's hands. Ron had to be strong, had to be able to forgive him for stealing Hermione away from him (for surely that must be how he saw it), because Harry would absolutely not give her back, _could_ not give her back. If Ron could handle the fact that he and Hermione were together, he'd be welcome; if not, well, Harry didn't particularly want to think about that possibility.

And Hermione's reaction was strange as well. It was as if she hadn't cared one way or another that Ron was back, and that was even more disconcerting than her screaming at him, or throwing her arms around him and kissing him.

Well, maybe not more disconcerting than _that_. But still, it was odd. He wished he could talk to her now, have a private conversation with her about Ron, and how she was holding up. He didn't see any chance of that happening anytime soon. It was hardly as if they could convince him to go out and fetch them firewood or something, since they already had a bowl full of magical flames, and were capable of conjuring up more at any time. Maybe they could send him to go get food for them?

God help them if that happened. They'd probably lose him again, this time a victim of an All-You-Can-Eat Buffet rather than a Horcrux's sinister influence.

No, it would be a long time before Harry would be able to get a word in private with Hermione. And it would probably be even longer than that before he'd get to share a bed with her again.

Merlin.

Just a few hours ago he'd been trying to put a stop to that, or at least slow things down some.

Now it was all he could think about.

Still, they'd destroyed one Horcrux, and acquired the means to destroy the others. It was only a matter of time until they found the rest.

But that seemed like a hollow victory, in the face of the realization that it could be days, possibly _weeks_, before he got the chance to snog his girlfriend again.

Fucking Ron.


	14. Chapter XII

**Chapter XII**

**Eve of Change**

**Disclaimer:** No house-elves were harmed in the making of this chapter.

**Author's Note**: According to my copy of Quidditch Through the Ages (by Kennilworthy Whisp, published by Whizz Hard Books, 29b Diagon Alley, London), "Flacking" is a common Quidditch foul that occurs when a Keeper uses any part of his or her anatomy to reach through the rear of the goal hoop and push the Quaffle out—goals must be defended from the front.

"Haversacking" is another common foul, in which the Chaser still grasps the Quaffle as they score. The Quaffle must be thrown, and any points obtained are invalidated if any part of the Chaser's fist or arm passes through the goal hoop.

I'll leave it to you to figure out what Ron's and the other Gryffindor boys' interpretations of the terms were.

**Soundtrack Note: **Malfoy's Mission from the Half Blood Prince soundtrack.

* * *

"Time is a brisk wind, for each hour it brings something new... but who can understand and measure its sharp breath, its mystery and its design?"

-Paracelsus

They'd had their first fight right after New Year's. First as a couple, that is; they'd fought loads of times before.

But this one felt worse. A lot worse.

He'd just been so damn _persistent_, couldn't face the possibility that it was all just a myth. Refused to listen to reason, listen to _her_, even when Ron backed her up on this…

Ron. That was another thing. She wasn't sure if he really agreed with her, or if he was just trying to make up for having skipped out on them. Whichever it was, she hadn't forgiven him yet, even though they were on speaking terms, ever since they'd just barely escaped from Death Eaters at the Lovegoods' house…

Ugh. She wished now that she'd never even brought up the idea of visiting Xenophilius, and not just because it had turned out to have been a trap. It had all been for nothing, and now… Now Harry was being ridiculous, insisting on chasing after absurd Hallows, all because of a nonsense _fairy tale_ Mr. Lovegood had told them!

That's what they'd fought about. He'd called her desire to stick to what they _knew_ to be true, that the Horcruxes were the key to defeating Voldemort, an _obsession_. An _obsession_, when _he_ was the one completely fixated on a stone that would let you talk to dead people!

They'd fought, and argued, and ended up snapping at each other and storming off to opposite sides of the tent to sulk, but she was worried about him. Harry had lost a lot of people, more than most. Sirius… Dumbledore… his parents, he'd never even known_ them_… It had been cruel of Lovegood to bring up the legend of the Resurrection Stone in front of him. It had been all he could talk about, the last few days, the Stone, about how _sure_ he was that Dumbledore had left it to him in the Snitch, that with it he would know how to defeat Voldemort… When he'd talked about how the second Peverell brother had actually _lived_ with a dead girl for a time, the excitement in his voice had frightened her.

She was concerned, and now he'd spent the last week brushing her off whenever she tried to talk to him about it.

Fighting with Harry wasn't like fighting with Ron. Ron and her… bickered. They'd always insulted one another, sometimes, mostly good-naturedly, and sometimes hurtfully, but even when they were positively _screaming _at each other, it had never hurt her feelings nearly so bad as a single dismissive glare from Harry when he was annoyed with her. It wasn't that he was yelling at her, or even saying nasty things to her… it was that he was saying hardly anything at all anymore. It was like he'd given up on trying to convince her.

The thing that hurt her the most, though, was the fact that they hadn't kissed in days. Hadn't exchanged the words "I love you" to one another since before Ron had returned. Hadn't even held hands, not since she'd blasted a hole in Mr. Lovegood's floor and dropped them to safety.

Things were not the same anymore, and she was beginning to worry. Were they still even… together?

There didn't seem to be any signs indicating that they were.

So now they sat in the tent, Harry pouring over _her_ copy of Dumbledore's _Tales of Beedle the Bard_, while Ron kept the watch. Or rather, while Ron was _supposed _to be keeping the watch—he had a bad habit of looking over his shoulder every few minutes to stare at her or Harry, for about as long as he could get away with.

That was another thing. Hermione wasn't sure _how_ she felt about Ron's return, exactly. She'd been furious at him, of course, enraged at his _presumption_, the idea that he thought he could just _stroll_ back into their lives and pretend it had all never happened.

But it _had_ happened, and… she was grateful for it. If Ron hadn't left—and she did believe him, when he said that he'd regretted it instantly, even if she was still narked with him—she and Harry would never have had the opportunity to come clean with one another.

So, in a way, she owed him one, for if he didn't have such a short fuse… if he hadn't stormed out… she would never have gotten to hear Harry tell her he loved her.

Add that to the fact that he had saved Harry's life the night he'd returned, and she'd been unable to go through with her initial impulse to rip her wand out of Harry's hand and cast _Levicorpus _at Ron and kick him in the face until she felt a little bit better about the whole situation.

The truth was, she'd been completely unprepared; she'd never expected to see Ron again, at least not before this was all over, and when she'd seen him again… she'd frozen.

As much as she hated to admit it, there was still a part of her, and not a tiny one, either, she acknowledged, that still cared about the redhead. That didn't want to see him hurt, they way she had been. She knew that whatever else had happened, he still had feelings for her; it was obvious, the way he'd looked at her when Harry had woken her that night. And when Harry told her that Ron already knew about them being together… She couldn't bring herself to rub it in his face. She knew all too well how much seeing the person you love be in love with someone else could hurt.

Ironically enough, she'd learned that lesson from the both of them. First from Ron, with the way he'd carried on with Lavender, and then from Harry, the way he'd blindsided her by snogging Ginny right out of the blue.

In any case, though, she was beginning to suspect that sparing Ron's feelings was starting to get on her nerves. And more than that, she was starting to worry that maybe it had cost her her relationship with Harry.

If only she could just sit down next to him, and place her hand in his, and tell him how much she loved him… She would be able to make things right again, ask him why they were really fighting… There was more to it than Horcruxes vs. Hallows, she knew.

Surely he couldn't think she would choose Ron over him? That couldn't _possibly_ be why he was so upset. Surely he _knew_ how she felt for him, how she'd _always_ felt for him…

Ron was looking over his shoulder again, eyes trailing back and forth between her and Harry. He looked… annoyed. Since he had gotten back, he'd tried to lighten the somewhat dour atmosphere that had pervaded the tent since the night of his return, and after their too-close-for-comfort escape from the Lovegood house, she'd been at least willing to humor him some. It had been comforting, slipping back into the old banter, the wisecracks and the blunt trash-talking as reassuring as old friends. Which, she supposed, they were. Such witty (and sometimes not so witty, on Ron's part, though she had to admit, he did have his moments) repartee had colored their relationship since the very beginning, and having it around once more almost made it feel like they were back at Hogwarts, not having to worry about Horcruxes and Death Eaters and Hallows…

But while it provided a release for both her and Ron, it only aggravated Harry. He was moody and distant enough already, but anytime Ron said something even remotely amusing it would only make Harry even more irritable. Things were starting to feel like they had before the locket had been destroyed, and Ron seemed to be getting as fed up with his best mate's silence as she was.

Evidently he had finally had enough. "I'm going to go for a walk," he announced loudly, giving Hermione a pointed look. Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Ron grabbed the invisibility cloak from the floor and opened the flap before he could get a word out edgewise, and strolled calmly out into the snow.

She appreciated the gesture. From the moment he had returned, Ron had always been hovering around one or the other of them like a friendly Niffler. At first she had thought his behavior to be a juvenile attempt to keep her and Harry apart from one another, but now she realized that he'd just been trying to compensate for walking out on them before.

Harry sat on his bunk, glaring at the empty tent entrance where Ron had stood only moments before.

Well, she thought, it was now or never. Knowing Ron, he'd quickly come to regret stomping out into the cold, and would be hoping they'd finish making up quickly so he could come back in and warm up.

She got up and made her way to the bed in which Harry lay. He eyed her suspiciously, then moved over begrudgingly so that she could sit next to him. That was a good sign, she supposed. At least he hadn't gotten up and mov—

He started to get up and move.

"Oh no you don't!" she snapped at him, grabbing him by the arm and tugging him back down.

"I'm tired of arguing, Hermione," he told her wearily. "Can't we just pretend—"

"Do you regret being with me?"

He gaped at her. "What? No!"

"Then why—"

"Hermione! You _know_ how I feel," he told her, the concern he clearly felt etched across his face and spilling into his voice. "You'll never be able to get rid of me, I swear."

"It's nice to be reminded every once in a while," she told him quietly, "even if we disagree about whether we should be looking for Horcruxes or Hallows."

"Hermione…" he said softly, his voice pained. "You know as well as I do that with Ron around…"

"Ron's not here right now though, is he?"

He was on her before she could even blink, his mouth pressed to hers with a hungry urgency, his tongue catching hers by surprise.

She melted into the kiss, enjoying the feel of his arms around her once more. This was where they belonged, she knew, and whatever frustration or irritation had existed between them just faded away. She kissed him back, her hands reaching up to caress his neck and slide into his messy, jet-black hair.

When finally they had broken from the kiss, Harry told her a bit breathlessly, "I love you, Hermione."

"I love you too," she replied, her hand still resting on the back of his head. They sat there, for a moment, just gazing into one another's eyes, a little smile upon each of their faces.

"I-I'm sorry," he said eventually. "I still think that the Hallows were what Dumbledore wanted me to find, but—but I should never have treated you the way I have the last couple days. I'm sorry I haven't told you how much I love you since Ron—"

"Shhh…" she whispered, leaning in to give him a peck on the lips again. "Just don't let it happen again."

"I won't, I swear!"

"And you have to kiss me like that at _least_ once a day, promise? We've already missed our first New Year's Eve kiss together and I'm not going to stand for missing out on any more."

"Well, we—we can't just snog in front of Ron like that…"

"You leave that to me," she told him with a smile and another kiss. "You promise, though?"

"Of course I do," he said, smiling back at her.

They sat there, holding each other and kissing for a few extra moments, and then Hermione stood, straightening out her clothes and giving Harry a once-over to make sure they both looked presentable. With a no-nonsense demeanor she strode to the other side of the tent and plopped herself down in front of the bowl of bluebell flames again. Harry just stared after her, but she shot him a glare and then eyed the copy of Dumbledore's book meaningfully. He took the hint and started to read it again, or at least pretended to.

She was still waiting a few minutes later, when Ron finally did return, shivering and deliberately avoiding looking at the bunks until he caught sight of Hermione by the fire.

"How was your walk?" she asked sweetly.

"Fine," he grunted.

"See anything interesting?" she asked him in the same pleasant tone.

"Um… besides lots of snow?"

"No, I mean like… did you see any birds?"

"Birds?" asked the redhead suspiciously.

"Yeah. See any interesting birds? Bird-watching is such a fascinating hobby," said Hermione, giving him a weighted look.

"Oh!" exclaimed Ron. "Yeah, I, uh, saw a, er, Jobberknoll, I think. And maybe a Billywig?"

"Billywigs are insects," Hermione snapped, unable to help herself. "And besides, they're native to Australia."

"Oh, er, it was probably just a lark, then."

From behind his copy of _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_, Harry snorted.

"Well, it sounds like you had a _lovely_ time," Hermione said, her voice once more suspiciously saccharine, even to her own ears.

The expression on Ron's face as he warmed his rigid fingers over the fire said he clearly begged to differ, but aloud and in a rather tired tone he said, "Oh yeah, it was buckets of fun."

"That's good. I think pursuing one's interests is especially important now, what with all the stress we're under, don't you think Harry?"

Harry made a noncommittal sound and further retreated behind his book, unable to look his friend in the eye and keep a straight face at the same time.

"Er, right," Ron said, clearly aware he'd been entrapped somehow, but not exactly certain of how much trouble he was in just yet.

"Now obviously Harry and I need you here with us, to help find Horcruxes and fight back if we bump into Death Eaters, but I want you to know the two of us support your new pastime, and understand how important it is to you."

"My new pastime?"

"Oh, yes! Just think of all the exotic species you might stumble across out there! Surely it would be alright if Ron were to go on a little hike everyday, wouldn't it, Harry? Not too long, of course, it's important for us all to stick together, maybe only ten or fifteen minutes a day? He could keep an eye out for anything suspicious outside, as well."

"Well, it's not like we're really busy right now, with the lack of any leads on the next Horcrux. Why not take a whole half-hour, Ron?" said Harry, who to judge by the sound of his voice was hiding what had to be a massive grin behind his book.

"A whole half-hour? Everyday? Bloody hell, Hermione, its cold out there!" Ron protested.

"Oh, but your passion for ornithology will keep you warm!"

This time, Harry did laugh. After a moment, though, so did Ron, and then Hermione, until all three of them were wiping tears from their eyes.

For a minute, all was just like old times again.

Hermione took the next watch, allowing her to flash Harry a sly grin after Ron had gone to bed. Her ruse had fooled no one, but she'd gotten her point across without hurting Ron's feelings. More importantly, she'd scored them thirty minutes of alone time a day, and she was planning on putting them to good use.

_You can fit a hell of a lot of kisses into thirty minutes_, she thought dreamily.

* * *

Months passed, and never had Harry been so happy to be held to his word.

Despite their continued disagreement over whether they should go after Horcruxes or Hallows, and a decided lack of progress in either endeavor… things didn't seem so bad. And after Ron managed to get "Potterwatch" on the wireless one evening after his daily bird-watching stroll, their spirits were at an all time high. Hearing familiar voices, and learning that their friends and families were still safe, had lifted a huge burden from all their shoulders.

So naturally he would choose precisely that moment to fuck everything up.

"Come on, Hermione, why are you so determined not to admit it? Vol—"

"HARRY, NO!"

"—demort's after the Elder Wand!"

"The name's Taboo!" Ron bellowed, leaping to his feet. "I told you, Harry, I told you, we can't say it anymore—we've got to put the protection back around us—quickly—it's how they find—"

But it was too late. A loud crack came from outside the tent, and their Sneakascope flared brilliantly and started twirling.

Through the sudden darkness caused by Ron's extinguishing the tent's lights with the Deluminator, a terrible, grating voice called out, "We know you're in there! You've got half a dozen wands pointing at you and we don't care who we curse!"

Hermione took charge, and he had only a half a second's confusion to wonder why she was pointing her wand at him before her Stinging Jinx struck him full on in the face and he was flung back from her in white hot agony.

Unknown hands yanked him up roughly off the ground, and the wand that Ron had acquired for him was ripped from his pocket. His face was in excruciating pain, and felt unrecognizable beneath his clutching fingers. His glasses had been lost in the chaos, and in combination with the swollen slits his eyes had been reduced to by Hermione's spell, he could only barely make out the fuzzy forms of his friends beings seized by figures in dark cloaks.

"Get—off—her!" Ron shouted. There was the unmistakable sound of knuckles hitting flesh: Ron grunted in pain and Hermione screamed, "No! Leave him alone, leave him alone!"

"Your boyfriend's going to have worse than that done to him if he's on my list," said the horribly familiar, rasping voice. "Delicious girl… What a treat… I do enjoy the softness of the skin…"

Harry felt a chill go through his veins. He knew who the man was. Fenrir Greyback, the most notorious werewolf in all of Britain.

The werewolf who had bit Lupin.

And now he had Hermione by the arm, towering over her, practically salivating at all the sick, twisted things he had in mind for her.

This was all his fault, Harry knew. _He_ had summoned the Death Eaters, by foolishly ignoring Ron's insistence that Voldemort's name had been enchanted. By speaking it aloud, he had alerted them to the location of the tent, gotten them all caught. He was to blame for the way Fenrir Greyback was eying the woman he loved.

But it was more than having just thoughtlessly blurted out Voldemort's name, he knew.

She wouldn't even _be_ here if it weren't for him. He'd always known that this moment would come. That eventually, he would drag her in to harm's way, that there was no way in hell she would ever leave his side, that any risk he took himself she would share in.

He had _known_, and he had let her remain, because of how much he loved her.

He should have left the tent when he'd had the chance, struck out on his own. Spared her, even if it meant giving up the one thing had had ever truly wanted.

"Search the tent!" said another voice.

Someone rolled him forcibly onto his back. A beam of wandlight fell into his face and Greyback laughed. "I'll be needing butterbeer to wash this one down. What happened to you, ugly?"

Understanding dawned. The skin on his face was tight, puffy and swollen, as if he'd been splashed with some kind of noxious venom he was allergic to. He must look so horrible and unlike his usual self that even with the most famous face in Wizarding Britain, the Snatchers wouldn't discover his true identity.

Hermione had saved him once again. And maybe, just maybe, they might make it out of this alive, thanks to her.

He lied whenever they asked him questions, making up a ridiculous pseudonym—Vernon Dudley, it was the first thing that had come to his mind—and claiming their usage of Voldemort's name had been an accident. He told them he was a Slytherin at Hogwarts, and the little knowledge he had gleaned from his brief foray into the Slytherin common room second year apparently convinced them of this. And when he told them his father was a Ministry employee, and it turned out that there _was_ a Dudley who worked in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes… he began to have hope.

Surely luck, his oldest companion, one who had watched out for him at least since he was eleven years old—since he'd learned of the meaning of his mother's sacrifice from Dumbledore, he refused to consider his surviving Voldemort's Killing Curse as an infant an act of luck—surely luck wouldn't abandon him now, would it?

Of course it would.

It all derailed so spectacularly that Harry might have even appreciated the irony if it hadn't meant certain death for them all. First they found Gryffindor's sword, which only raised the suspicions of the Snatchers. Then they discovered a picture of Hermione in the Daily Prophet, and uncovered Harry's glasses in the tent.

"''_ermione Granger,_'" one of them had said, the one named Scabior, "'_the Mudblood who is known to be traveling with 'arry Potter_.'"

And now Greyback had seized him by the chin and was staring closely at his inflated face, eyes locked onto the tightly stretched line of a scar pulled taut against his forehead.

"What's that on your forehead, Vernon?" he asked softly, his foul breath forcing Harry to fight against the urge to vomit.

And then his glasses were being forced on him, and they stared down at him in shock and glee.

"It is!" roared Greyback. "We've caught Potter!"

And within minutes they were forced along, Disapparated, one step closer to the Dark Lord's wrath. Beyond broad stone steps stood a massive, imposing structure, regal and sinister all at once, like an ancient villa that bizarrely reminded Harry of Salazar Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets… ornate and highly crafted, and brimming with shadows and dark forces…

Malfoy Manor.

And in what seemed to be no time at all, he stood before Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy, Bellatrix Lestrange cackling over them while Greyback and his horde stood motionless around the edge of the hall. Peter Pettigrew was also there, lurking in the corner of the hall like the coward he was.

"What is this?"

"They say they've got Potter," said Narcissa's cold voice. "Draco, come here."

Soft, hesitant footsteps stepped forward, as if he'd been forcibly compelled to move in their direction.

"Well, boy?" rasped the werewolf.

"Well, Draco?" said Lucius Malfoy. He sounded avid. "Is it? Is it Harry Potter?"

His fate rested in the hands of Draco Malfoy. His face, distorted and engorged by Hermione's handiwork, was too unfamiliar to the adults for them to know him by it. It would require Draco's eyes, the eyes of a classmate, one who knew him better than any other Death Eater in the room, to positively identify him.

He was as good as dead, he thought.

"I can't—I can't be sure," said Draco. And the fear and reluctance in his voice left no doubt in Harry's mind that the blonde knew _exactly_ who it was that he was being asked to look at.

Why was he protecting him?

Even when they demanded he look at Hermione and Ron, who Lucius already recognized, Draco was reluctant to explicitly confirm their names.

And then, just as Bellatrix was about to touch her finger to the Dark Mark, and call forth her master… all hell broke loose.

"_Stupefy!_" she screamed. "_Stupefy!_"

The Snatchers were no match for her, even outnumbering her four to one as they did. One by one they collapsed, all except Greyback, forced to his knees, his hands outstretched. In one hand she wielded the Sword of Gryffindor, in the other her wand, aimed directly at the werewolf's neck.

"_Where did you get this sword?_" she whispered, her voice the second most frightening sound he had ever heard.

"How dare you?" he snarled, his mouth the only thing that could move as he was forced to gaze up at her. He bared his pointed teeth. "Release me, woman!"

"Where did you find this sword?" she repeated, brandishing it in his face. "Snape sent it to my vault in Gringotts!"

"It was in their tent," rasped Greyback. "Release me, I say!"

She stood, panting slightly, looking down at the sword, examining its hilt. Then she turned to look at the silent prisoners.

"If it is indeed Potter, he must not be harmed," she muttered, more to herself than to the others. "The Dark Lord wishes to dispose of Potter himself… But if he finds out… I must… I must know…"

She turned back to her sister again.

"The prisoners must be placed in the cellar, while I think what to do!"

"This is my house, Bella, you don't give orders in my—" Narcissa began.

"Do it! You have no idea of the danger we are in!" shrieked Bellatrix. She looked frightening, mad; a thin stream of fire issued from her wand and burned a hole in the carpet.

She was terrified. It was unnerving, to see someone so deadly look be filled with such dread, such horror. The sword was not supposed to be here. It was _supposed_ to be in her vault, Harry realized. The fake, the one they'd heard Griphook tell Ted Tonks and Dean about… that was the one Gringotts possessed… and the real one was in her hand now…

The sword was important to them. Important to Voldemort, he realized.

And if he knew his most loyal lieutenant had failed him, the consequences would be very… dire.

They ranted for a moment, trying to assure themselves that they possessed the sword. Bellatrix was frantic, desperate to figure out how the three had obtained what she had thought to be safe beneath a mile of goblin enchantments. And Narcissa was slowly beginning to realize how truly dire their situation was.

"Take these prisoners down to the cellar, Greyback."

"Wait," said Bellatrix sharply. "All except… except for the Mudblood."

Greyback gave a grunt of pleasure.

Harry felt as if the Horcrux was around his neck again, its locket chain sinking into his flesh as it strangled him mercilessly, felt as if he were again sinking to the bottom of an icy pit… He couldn't speak, couldn't breathe, couldn't even think…

"No!" shouted Ron. "You can have me, keep me!"

Bellatrix hit him across the face; the blow echoed around the room.

"If she dies under questioning, I'll take you next," she said. "Blood traitor is next to Mudblood in my book. Take them downstairs, Greyback, and make sure they are secure, but do nothing more to them—yet."

Only now did he begin to snap out of it, struggling fiercely as the werewolf forced them out of the room, but a sharp jab to his swollen face left him in a blaze of agony that washed away all resistance. Down a dark passageway and a steep flight of stairs they were dragged until they'd reached a heavy door. Thrown through it, the sound of it slamming shut behind them hadn't even faded away before a terrible, drawn out scream came from directly above them.

"HERMIONE!" bellowed Ron, and Harry felt a flash of something he had never felt before rip through him. A sense of helplessness, and fear, and rage, a jolt of cold, white hot fury that made his entire body shake… but those sensations were all familiar to him, and there was something else, something he hadn't known he was capable of… a blazing intensity that came from somewhere deep within, at the very kernel of his soul…

It surged across him, making the hair throughout his body stand on edge, and crackled down along his arms, and he thrust them outward, at the door. The heavily fortified wood of the cellar door buckled, groaning dangerously, and even Ron stopped his howling to stare at him in shock and amazement. Harry knew in that moment, however, that it wouldn't be enough—the wandless magic began to dissipate, and the door remained in one piece. He could have burst through it easily if he'd had a wand, or had their captors not seen fit to ward this place as a dungeon… but they had, and powerful magic constrained them, held them in this place, prevented him from lashing out and rescuing Hermione.

He collapsed, drained, unable to remain standing after such effort had been wasted. He had hardly the strength left in him to roll over, but then from above Hermione screamed again and suddenly he was sitting up and roaring out her name even more loudly than Ron, unable to think of anything else except for the fact that the woman he loved was about to die, and that he was unable to do a damn thing about it.

He saw the look in his best friend's eyes, the impotent tear-masked rage and pain he knew oh so well, and in that moment Ron Weasley had never been more of a brother to him, for he was not alone—they woman they _both_ loved was about to die, and both of them were unable to do a damn thing about it.

Dimly he was aware that there were others in the cellar with them, Luna Lovegood and Dean Thomas and Mr. Ollivander and Griphook the Gringotts goblin, but he could do nothing but listen to the ravings of Bellatrix Lestrange as she tortured Hermione.

"You are lying, filthy Mudblood, and I know it! You have been inside my vault at Gringotts! Tell the truth, _tell the truth!_"

Another terrible scream rang out, and Harry was suddenly unable to breathe.

"HERMIONE!" bellowed Ron for the both of them.

"What else did you take? What else have you got? Tell me the truth or, I swear, I shall run you through with this knife!"

His hands were suddenly free, and he realized that Luna had been hacking away at his restraints with a rusty old nail, despite his complete obliviousness to her presence.

"What else did you take, what else? ANSWER ME! _CRUCIO!_"

Hermione's screams were worse than ever, and it ran through him like the very knife Bellatrix had promised to end her life with. He could hear her pleading, sputtering, and in desperation he searched for something, _anything_, that might help him save her.

The Snitch bequeathed to him by Dumbledore, useless…

His broken wand, even more useless…

Sirius' old two way mirror, in which gleamed a singular eye of purest blue…

_Dumbledore_.

"Help us!" he yelled at it in mad desperation. "We're in the cellar of Malfoy Manor, help us!"

The eye blinked and was gone.

Beside him Ron was sobbing, pounding at the walls of the cellar helplessly, still crying her name: "HERMIONE! HERMIONE!"

"How did you get into my vault?" they heard Bellatrix scream. "Did that dirty little goblin in the cellar help you?"

"We only met him tonight!" Hermione sobbed. "We've never been inside your vault. . . . It isn't the real sword! It's a copy, just a copy!"

"A copy?" screeched Bellatrix. "Oh, a likely story!"

"But we can find out easily!" came Lucius's voice. "Draco, fetch the goblin, he can tell us whether the sword is real or not!"

Harry dashed across the cellar to where Griphook was huddled on the floor.

"Griphook," he whispered into the goblin's pointed ear, "you must tell them that sword's a fake, they mustn't know it's the real one, Griphook, please—"

He didn't know what love was like for goblins, if they even felt the same emotions as humans did, but he begged anyway, pleaded silently, willing him to understand that Hermione was his most precious treasure… even as Draco led him away, he _willed _Griphook's understanding… that Hermione was more precious to him than all the gold in the Potter family vault… than all the gold in Gringott's, or the world…

A loud crack came from within their cell, and Ron, Deluminator in hand, unleashed its pent in light so that they might see what was there, but Harry was too busy listening to what was happening above, the footsteps of Draco marching Griphook to Bellatrix.

"DOBBY!" cried out Ron, and a moment later went pale white with the realization that he'd just shouted out the fact that they were being rescued to their captors.

But nothing happened. There came no shouts or running footsteps; something must have distracted everyone in the room above, for in fact there came no sound at all. Straining against the door, Harry listened desperately. A newcomer's voice was speaking, one that sounded oddly familiar to him, but that he couldn't quite place…

Ron took charge, ordering Dobby to Disapparate Luna, Dean and Ollivander to Shell Cottage and then come back for them. Harry hardly paid attention, grimacing in annoyance as their classmates protested their desire to help them… he was trying to _listen_, damn it…

Hermione's screams had stopped, hadn't sounded for a while, actually, and a wave of utmost dread swept through him… was she even still alive?

A loud pop that signaled the other's disappearance, and then it was just Ron and him remaining.

Both listened in utmost silence, trying to make out exactly what was going on upstairs… Bellatrix had snarled something, and the newcomer's calm, collected voice murmured its reply, but it was too soft for Harry to make out any of what he said…

Ron looked at him in shock and recognition, and opened his mouth to say something, but then the sounds of curses being fired shrieked out from above, and then there was nothing but silence.

For the longest time, silence, and then one last rushing whistle of magic, and then the sound of a body crumpling to the floor.

And then, one final scream. Hermione's scream, not of pain this time, but of utmost bereavement, the ultimate loss. There was a terrible finality to it, like the wail of a Banshee, and the sound left no doubt that she had given up on life, on going on living. She sounded as if she were being ripped in two, and Harry's heart responded in kind.

His hand thrust into Hagrid's bag of its own accord and gripped the broken shards of his phoenix feather wand, his grasp so tight he was certain it might crush the very holly it was made of to dust. The crackling _force_ of his desperation had returned, and he focused it all into his wand hand, ripping it out of the bag and thrusting his clutched fist out at the door. The broken pieces of wood in his hand glowed with a flaring white light that revealed the bones of his hand through the dull red glow of his skin, and then the door exploded outward, blown to hell.

Ron seized him by the arm and dragged him to his wobbly legs. Dizziness nearly overwhelmed him, and the only reason he did not lie down again to sleep for twenty years was because of the woman about to die upstairs. Shaking the weariness away from him, or at least to the sides of his mind, temporarily, the two surged up the stairs towards Hermione, praying that were not too late.

They could _not _be too late.


	15. Second Interlude: Power The Dark Lord Kn

**Second Interlude**

**Power The Dark Lord Knows Not**

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and friends belong to J. K. Rowling. Arithmancy, or at least the version of it depicted here, belongs to Pythagoras.

**Author's Note:** So I'm kind of bummed out a little, readers—once again, the site is telling me I've received absolutely zero hits on the last two chapters, despite the fact that they've gotten plenty of reviews. It's a little discouraging, not getting to see how many interested visitors I've got following my latest updates. So if you have the time, please review—for now, it's my sole way of judging how much interest the story is generating!

Once more I'd like to thank my regular reviewers—I'm eternally grateful for your opinions, guys, and I'm always writing with you all in mind.

**Soundtrack Note: **In Noctem, from the Half Blood Prince soundtrack.

* * *

"To achieve great things, two things are needed; a plan, and not quite enough time."

-Leonard Bernstein

He stood atop a grassy hill just outside the property, gazing down at the manor, taking a moment to appreciate the sight and sound of the trees swaying gently in the wind. It was dark out, and through gaps in the mostly overcast sky you could see the stars. They were far more brilliant than he had remembered. Perhaps that was just another part of it, he thought introspectively.

Everything else seemed clearer to him now as well.

He had nearly given into his despair, that night in the tent, after she'd gone. Nearly given up on his dream. It was impossible, he had told himself. Dumbledore himself had told him so, as had her shade, when he'd consulted it in the Forbidden Forest, before setting out on this quest. He had always been destined to fail.

There was no force more powerful than time.

He enjoyed the feel of the nighttime breeze against his skin, feeling his cape flutter in the wind behind him. He had traveled, after that night. Wandered far and wide, seen the world, while the boy and the girl began the cycle anew, exactly as they had before. He had stood atop the Himalayas, felt the molten heat of the volcanoes of the Pacific, trekked across the Sahara and the Mojave deserts, roamed the frozen wastes of the northernmost Canadian tundra…

He had visited dozens of the continent's greatest cities, taken in a hundred centers of culture, learning and history. Rome… Naples… Paris… Barcelona… Lisbon… Athens… Argos… Munich… Dublin… The list went on and on. He had perused the shelves of a hundred different libraries, both magical and Muggle, the oldest and largest he could find. She was with him always, now, but he had felt particularly close to her, standing in those hallowed book halls, surrounded by the written word… the sum total of all of humanity's acquired wisdom all around him…

He thought back, to what she had told him one night, shortly after he'd first heard her tell him how much she loved him. She'd tried to explain Arithmancy to him, pique his interest in that, her favorite of subjects… and by the end of the night, he had indeed wished he had taken it at Hogwarts, not so much because the subject itself interested him, but because of the passion with which she had gone on about it…

Arithmancy, she had explained, revolved around the premise that All Is Number. That everything in this world, from its stars and planets to its plants, animals and people, could be reduced to numerical values, each with their own traits and attributes, numbers that could reveal the true nature of a thing, or of a man.

The noble art traced its lineage back to Pythagoras, around whom a veritable religion of number had sprung up. Pythagoras had preached about the mathematical nature of the cosmos, explored the natural perfection of the angle and the circle, given the theorem which to this day bears his name to the infant science of geometry…

He had invented a whole mode of musical notation, observed how the heavens moved in an orderly, predictable fashion and postulated that the harmony of the universe reflected the Music of the Spheres, the primordial, ethereal pattern of proportion and interval that all creation stemmed from.

Most important of all, he had taught how numbers were reducible, that the progression of values emanated from a singular source and naturally returned to it all at the same time, that every number was composed of its base components, and could be broken down until you reached the Whole.

Everything had a value, more than one, actually; everything about a person could be assigned a number, from the date of their birth to the clothes they wore or what they had eaten for breakfast. But one of his earliest lessons at Hogwarts had been about Names, and the Power that a Name held. Tom Riddle had learned that lesson well, and had chosen a new name for himself, a new value, one full of fear and loneliness, going on to become the sad, misguided wretch he was today.

Harry James Potter became 8 + 1 + 9 + 9 + 7 + 1 + 1 + 4 + 5 + 1 + 7 + 6 + 2 + 2 + 5 + 9 = 77.

7 + 7 = 14.

1 + 4 = 5.

The number Five represents the senses and freedom, she had taught him. Individuals with a value of Five are courageous and impulsive, adapt well to their circumstances and prone to taking dangerous chances. They are also attractive to the opposite sex, she had told him, her cheeks turning a delicate shade of pink.

That was about the extent to which he'd learned about Arithmancy that night, but he had had all the time in the world as of late, and had read up on the subject during his travels, mapping out further equations.

Hermione Jean Granger became 8 + 5 + 9 + 4 + 9 + 6 + 5 + 5 + 1 + 5 + 1 + 5 + 7 + 9 + 1 + 5 + 7 + 5 + 9 = 106.

1 + 0 + 6 = 7.

Seven is the number of perfection (_Of course_ she would have been a Seven, he thought with a smile). Sevens seek perfection in all they do; whatever task they set for themselves, they seek to be the best at it. They are analytical and deep-thinkers, and can be aloof and unreasonable. They may be of a nervous or skeptical disposition, but wield great inner strength and wisdom.

5 + 7 = 12.

1 + 2 = 3.

The number Three is the value of the Triad, the Creative Force, the supreme expression of love—Two who find one another only to become Three, but also Two who seek each other that they may become One.

Two is the value of the Dyad, the numerical representation of all duality, all opposition. Hot and cold, good and evil, black and white, male and female, beginning and end… but these are all merely two sides of the same coin, two reflections of the same Whole.

In the end, it can all be reduced to the Whole. The Monad, from which all others issue forth. The Source. The Origin. God. The Universe. The One.

He imagined now that he could catch a glimpse of it now, see his part in it all, see how his Five fit into the equation. The illusion of separateness beginning to crumble, the realization of unity filling him with a new sense of peace, a new sense of purpose. He almost felt as if he could hear it, now, hear the Music of the Spheres, the thrumming melody through which all of Creation moved, the equation solving itself.

He began to hum along with it.

He had never been the Master of Death, he knew. No, before she had died he'd only ever united two of the Hallows, and afterwards… Dumbledore had explained it all to him already, he should have _known _better…

In that space between life and death, his old Headmaster had told him how he hadn't been worthy of possessing any but the least of the Hallows, the Elder Wand… that his weakness had been power, and that if he had united the three he would have been consumed by his own selfish desire…

He had been told all of this, and still he had fallen into the exact same trap.

The true Master of Death is not one that seeks to conquer Death, to _oppose_ it…

It is one who, like his ancestor Ignotus, greeted Death as an old friend and strolled with it, unafraid, into King's Cross Station…

He had sought to deny Death, to clutch Hermione back from its jaws. And that was where he had gone wrong. Death _could not _be refused, for Death waits at the end of all things. Death came in an instant, and lasted an eternity; could wait for an eternity, and lasted for only an instant. Like Time, it could not be overruled or tampered with by force.

Death _was _Time, and thus was beyond reproach.

He knew all of this now, and understood. The Music of the Spheres flowed through him, and he had tasted a glimpse of enlightenment.

He had not been the Master of Death, not until this very moment.

The trees swayed in the wind, and below him lay Malfoy Manor. The hour was approaching rapidly. Even now the boy would be howling at the cellar door, about to be rescued by the noble House-Elf. Soon the Dark Lord would come.

Time to set out, then.

He strolled down the hill at a leisurely pace, humming as he walked, the Elder Wand twirling in the fingers of one hand, the Resurrection Stone held lightly in the other, the Invisibility Cloak trailing out behind him in the winter air. He cut through the Malfoy family wards like wet tissue paper, detection spells and anti-intruder jinxes crumbling before him, the tall iron fence around the property glowing a fiery orange and melting as he approached, securing him passage onto the estate. He felt only calm, only serenity; fear, pain, regret, they had all been washed away from him, variables that the Music flowing through him had solved and annihilated.

One must yield to Death, if one desired for Death to yield to them… One must yield to Time, if one expected Time to yield to them…

He recalled as he walked the words Dumbledore had once spoken to him, long ago, on the night he had for the first time revealed the full text of Trelawny's Prophecy.

"_There is a room in the Department of Mysteries that is kept locked at all times. It contains a force that is at once more wonderful and more terrible than death, than human intelligence, than the forces of nature. It is also, perhaps, the most mysterious of the many subjects for study that reside there. It is the power held within that room that you possess in such quantities and which Voldemort has not at all_."

There was indeed a force more powerful than Time, more powerful than Death.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained. The equation had to be balanced if it were to be solved. For every action, an equal and opposite reaction. For every addition, a subtraction.

It was time to rejoin the Whole.

After all, it was only from One that Two could emerge…


	16. Chapter XIII

**Chapter XIII**

**The Sacrifice**

**Disclaimer:** Precisely one House-Elf was harmed in the making of this chapter.

**Author's Note:** We've broken the 100+ review barrier! Thank you all so much for your comments and support, loyal reviewers: this chapter is for you. Hell, the whole story is for you. Apologies for the shortness of the last update; hopefully this one's length and the fact that it's up the very next day should make up for it somewhat.

We're in the home stretch now, guys. Two more chapters and an epilogue, and **Time is the Fire** will, like all things, come to an end.

Also, the music Harry imagined, the one he was humming along to—the Music of the Spheres, the primordial melody, the divine harmony lying behind all things, which only a chosen few have caught a glimpse of throughout the eons—it sounds suspiciously like "All Along The Watchtower."

Make of that what you will.

**Soundtrack Note: **Dumbledore's Foreboding from the Half Blood Prince soundtrack, and Death of Cedric from the Goblet of Fire soundtrack.

* * *

"I have been astonished that Men could die Martyrs for religion - I have shudder'd at it - I shudder no more - I could be martyr'd for my Religion - Love is my religion - I could die for that - I could die for you."

-John Keats

Pain.

Such agonizing, excruciating pain, the likes of which she had never felt before. Every inch of her burnt in exquisite torture; her skin felt as if it had been ripped away from her, her muscles as if they'd been stretched well past their limits, her bones as though they'd been filled with hot writhing fire.

Gradually she came down from it, which was in some ways worse than the actual pain itself. Because when she was at the very peak of it, the thin razor sharp edge of oblivion, she was beyond conscious thought. Beyond concern for the other's safety, beyond the fear of more pain, beyond _all of it_. Coming down from it though… that brought it all back. As she returned to sanity, she heard a terrible, agonized scream, and it was difficult for her to reconcile the sound with the fact that her mouth was open and her vocal chords were taut and hoarse.

It was her scream.

Oh. That's strange…

"How did you get into my vault?" Bellatrix screeched at her. "Did that dirty little goblin in the cellar help you?"

That terrible euphoria that comes with _not_ hurting after having endured its excruciating embrace was fading, and the fear overtook her once more. Bellatrix held her wand at her, and Hermione began to weep, desperate to avoid further torture. "We only met him tonight!" she sobbed. "We've never been inside your vault… It isn't the real sword! It's a copy, just a copy!"

"A copy?" snapped Bellatrix. "Oh, a likely story!"

"But we can find out easily!" said Lucius. "Draco, fetch the goblin, he can tell us whether the sword is real or not!"

Bellatrix sneered, but mercifully—no, _not_ mercifully, _sadistically_—refrained from further casting the Cruciatus Curse until the blonde could return with his charge.

Poor Draco, Hermione thought deliriously as he hurriedly left the hall, he looks so _frightened_…

This was the worst part, the part after the pain had receded, because swept away with it was her selfish fixation on her own agony. Now that she could breathe, now that she could think, it was impossible to keep thoughts of _him_ out of her mind. They'd tire of her and her lies, eventually… they would end her. Maybe swiftly, maybe they'd toss her to the werewolf first, but either way, her life would soon be over. Her suffering would soon be over.

A similar fate likely lay in store for Ron.

But Harry…

She prayed that he would never experience this. That when they summoned Voldemort, that there would be a quick flash of green light and he would just close his eyes and come to join her… that Voldemort would not see fit to torment his helpless foe before ending the threat he posed…

It did not seem likely, though.

But a part of her still had hope. Not for herself, Bellatrix had already extinguished that. But for Harry, that somehow he might escape, might live to defeat Voldemort once and for all some other day… She wondered if the pain he would feel, living on without her, would come anywhere near how much pain she would feel, if he were dead and she had survived. She hoped that it wouldn't. That pain was far worse than any _Crucio_.

If Bellatrix or the Malfoys noticed her sobs intensify, no one remarked upon it. Greyback grinned at her, vilely, and Pettigrew stared at her as if fascinated, simultaneously repulsed and entranced by her suffering.

The door opened again, and Griphook entered, prodded forward by a trembling Draco Malfoy.

"You take too long, Draco!" snapped Bellatrix.

He did not dare reply.

Bellatrix looked at her speculatively. "We'll know soon enough if you are lying to me, Mudblood. Consider this but a taste of the suffering you shall know if you have indeed stolen from me. _Crucio!_"

Pain.

Excruciating, ecstatic pain. Her eyes rolled back in her head, her limbs twisted violently away from her, as if trying to get away from all the agony, and she began to thrash about on the floor. Such _pain_…Her entire being was infused with it, _drunk_ on it, and she screamed, she screamed until she could no longer hear the sound of her own voice. Surely she had already ceased to exist; surely she'd been shattered into a thousand million pieces and scatted on the wind, never to live again…

But no. She existed. If she didn't, she would not feel a thing. What a delight that would be, to never feel a thing again… to never feel pain, or sorrow, or regret, again… surely that would be worth giving up everything else… joy, and laughter, and love… yes, more than worth it…

How sweet it would be, to just slip away from it all and die…

It ended then, abruptly, violently, and she heard Bellatrix cackling madly. Gradually she came back to herself, trembling, sobbing, snot or maybe blood running freely from her nose. Everything was fuzzy, hazy, but after a moment her sight returned to her, and she could see that even Lucius and Narcissa were looking down uncomfortably at her.

"Enough, Bellatrix." The voice was firm, and impassive, and intimately familiar to her.

Every pair of eyes in the room but hers snapped around to stare at a point somewhere behind her. Woozily, unsteadily, she was able to summon up the effort to sit up some and turn her head, to look belatedly at the newcomer that held their attention so raptly.

Harry looked strange, she thought, half beneath his invisibility cloak. She'd never seen him wear it that way before, hanging over his shoulders and tied around his neck. Surely it wouldn't hide him very well like that. She had half a mind to point out how stupid he looked, but then the rest of her began catching up and realized he was wandless, and surrounded by four deadly Death Eaters and a werewolf. He was going to get himself killed, and there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it.

Wait… no, he _had_ gotten a wand. She wondered whose it was. Probably one of Greyback's Snatchers'. It looked good in his hand. Strong. Commanding.

"You have a lovely home, Narcissa, Lucius," he remarked politely. "My apologies if I neglected to mention that last time, I didn't exactly get a good look around..."

He looked different, she thought idly, and now the cobwebs were beginning to clear from her mind. The fear began to surge through her again, and her heart began to pound even more rapidly. He didn't stand a chance against them all. What was he _doing_?

"Potter," spat Bellatrix, her wand aimed directly at Harry's head, as were everyone else's. "How'd you get out?" She glared at her nephew. "Did _you_ let him go, Draco!"

"Please," Harry said dryly, the wand in his hand held lightly, almost as if at rest, as if he was unconcerned about the deadly curses that could be rushing his way any second now. "You've done enough bullying for one night, I think. A lifetime, even."

Lestrange snarled at him, her lips drawn back, exposing her teeth in such a way that even Greyback looked domesticated in comparison. "It doesn't matter. Even with a wand, you're no match for the six of us."

Hermione noticed she'd included Draco in her calculations. In her (admittedly still foggy) estimation, the blonde looked more prepared to wet himself than actually participate in a duel. She rounded the count down to five. Even then the odds weren't good. Was Harry just stalling for time? Was Ron even now making his way around the manor, ready to leap out and surprise them from behind?

Griphook was staring at him, too, a look of the utmost bewilderment on his face. He looked as though he couldn't believe what he was seeing. He obviously didn't know Harry that well; it was perfectly in character for him to use himself as bait in some foolishly dangerous trap. But wasn't _this_ cutting it a little close?

"Is—is it really you?" she asked, her voice faint and shaky after all the screaming her throat had endured.

"I am as I have always been," Harry told her softly, and the look he gave her was that familiar, intense gaze she'd come to know oh-so-well, that stare he reserved for her and her alone. "Entirely yours."

A jolt of red light lashed out at him. She'd never know who cast the first curse, but a veritable deluge of Dark magic lashed across the room from all directions, flash after flash, spell after spell, all aimed squarely at Harry.

Cries of "_Crucio!_" and "_Imperio!_" filled the air, and she was able to identify several Stunning Spells and Disarming Jinxes coming from the Malfoys, while Pettigrew cast a Confundus Charm followed by a Knockback Jinx. Evidently none of them were willing to kill him yet, as she saw no green jets of _Avada Kedavra_; that honor was reserved for the one they all served.

He was magnificent. Almost lazily, he brought the wand up to cast the multiple Shield Charms that deflected the first several volleys. Then he vanished, only to reappear across the room with a loud crack; by the time they'd whirled around to face him, firing off more spells, he'd vanished again and returned to his original position. He didn't bother to conjure up another Shield Charm—he merely held his wand out forcefully, and whatever it was they'd cast at him this time simply _didn't work_. Red and green sparks shot out from the tips of their wands, but absolutely nothing else happened. They stared in horror first down at their wands and then back up at him for a moment, but then he was slicing his wand through the air towards all of them and abruptly their wand hands were all dragged forcibly upwards, away from him. It was as though some invisible spectral had grabbed them each by the wrist and forced them up towards the ceiling.

She stared at him in awe. She'd never seen Dumbledore in battle before, but surely even he couldn't have managed such raw _power_, could he have?

Her mind began to race. Where had he gotten that wand?

The others were staring at him, too, shock and fear coloring their faces. "What _are _you?" whispered Narcissa, her voice taut with apprehension. Harry ignored her; Pettigrew was fixing him with a look of sheer terror, his big, pudgy frame beginning to shake like a leaf.

"Wormtail!" Harry called out cordially, as if he were greeting an old friend he had not seen in many years. "Forgive me, I had forgotten…"

She hadn't thought it possible, but upon hearing himself addressed by his captor Pettigrew looked even more frightened; he let out a kind of squeak, a sound more suited for the Animagus form he took than a full grown man. Hermione abruptly realized that was what he was trying to do, transform and scurry away—but Harry was stopping him, keeping him somehow fixed in human form…

"Have you ever wondered if you were perhaps missorted?" Harry asked him, his tone still light. "You are rather cowardly, aren't you… that's something you have in common with your master…"

Bellatrix began to snarl something in outrage, but they never got to hear her protests—Harry flicked his wand in her direction, and muttered "_Silencio!_", and a supernatural quiet draped over her, leaving her vile outburst unheard.

"That's better, isn't it, Wormtail?" said Harry, flashing Pettigrew a smile. "Where was I? Oh, yes, that's right, Voldemort—a lot of people don't realize this, of course, but he's actually an even bigger coward than you, Wormtail… you _were_ sorted into Gryffindor for a reason, there must exist within you at least _some_ bravery… but Voldemort, he knows nothing but fear… fear of failure… fear of mediocrity… fear of _death_… that last one's the saddest one of all…"

Pettigrew stared at him as if he were mad.

"Death is nothing to fear at all," Harry continued on. "Would you like to see? I can show you."

Even Greyback looked terrified of him now, and Pettigrew was jerking his body backwards, trying to get away, but he was stuck, held fast by the gleaming silver hand that rose above him, held motionless by Harry's will.

"Come now, Wormtail, you've nothing to fear from me," Harry said softly. "I only want to share the truth with you…"

He lifted his wand, pointed it at Pettigrew, and whispered, "_Legilimens_." The effect was immediate; Harry's eyes snapped shut, and began flicking from side to side beneath their lids as if he was dreaming. Pettigrew whimpered, and Harry's face was no longer as easy-going as it had been—his mouth was set in a taut line, and his features had hardened. He was witnessing the Death Eater's thoughts, his memories, she realized, and with a pang in her heart she knew that one of those memories would be the night that he had betrayed his parents to Voldemort.

She caught movement out of the corner of her eye, and saw that Bellatrix was fighting whatever hold Harry had placed upon her wand hand. Hers was trembling, and Harry must have been distracted by the images he saw in Pettigrew's mind, for slowly but surely she was tugging her hand free, aiming it in long, halting jerks towards Harry's back…

Just as she turned round to scream a warning, Harry's eyes snapped open. Bellatrix's hand flew back into place, and the Dark Lord's lieutenant let out a silent shriek, for now she hovered at least a foot off the ground, suspended by her wrist. Harry gave what she could only describe as a _push_, and suddenly Pettigrew cried out, reeling back as if he'd been slapped. Now _his_ eyes were closed, racing back and forth, forced to sort through all the images surging through him, and she realized with a jolt that the connection had been reversed.

Harry was barring his soul to the man.

The moment stretched onward, and Pettigrew began to weep, but still the onslaught continued. He must be showing him _everything_, she thought. But _why_?

Finally, after what had seemed to her to be a small eternity, Pettigrew's arm dropped heavily to his side, freed from Harry's hold over it. His eyes opened again, and he stared in shock first at her, then at Harry, and finally in horror at his own silver hand.

"Do you see now, Wormtail?" Harry asked him, not unkindly.

"Is it—is it _really_?" asked the man, his voice hardly a whisper, as if he could scarcely believe he was even asking the question. He sounded _grateful_.

"Yes. Quicker and easier than falling asleep, I have it on good authority," said Harry with a smile.

Pettigrew began to weep again, softly. "Th-then James? And Lily?"

"They felt no pain," her boyfriend assured him.

"I wish—I wish I had never—" choked the man.

"Do not pity the dead, Wormtail. Pity the living, and, above all, those who live without love," answered Harry.

"Do—do you think, that they might… forgive me?"

"The real question is, can you forgive yourself?"

The man's sobs intensified now, and he shook his head no. They all stared at him, transfixed, even Bellatrix. Hermione didn't understand. What was Harry playing at?

"If it makes any difference, Wormtail… _I _forgive you."

Pettigrew stared at him incredulously, the tears streaming down his grimy face, the look in his eyes one of disbelief warring with inconceivable joy.

"It is too late…"

"It's never too late," Harry said firmly. "They would welcome you with open arms, if you truly feel regret. You would have seen them tonight, anyway… will see them, one day, no matter what. All I have given you is the ability to go to them on your own terms."

"Then—you want me to—" he sputtered.

"It is your choice," Harry told him. "I will not hate you if you choose to continue on your current path, I assure you… I could no more hate you than I could hate myself. I have seen the Whole. You are no less a part of it than I… no less a part of it than her…"

Peter followed Harry's eyes to Hermione, staring at her in awe. He knew. He knew how they felt for one another.

"I have—a choice?"

"There is always a choice. Only you can make it. Only you can answer the question: were you sorted into the right House? Are you a Gryffindor or aren't you?"

Peter stared down at his silver hand for a long while then, looking like a man about to leap off a cliff. Hermione knew that something was about to happen, but she couldn't for the life of her figure it out. Harry wasn't making any _sense_, none of it made any sense… How had he escaped from the cellar? Why was he speaking so compassionately to the man who had been responsible for his parents' murder? For Voldemort's return? And what was this choice he was referring to?

"I choose—them," Wormtail said, and he looked up at Harry and he _smiled_. It looked entirely out of place on him, as though the lines of his rodent-like face had been permanently disfigured by years of fearful glances and pained scowls. Genuine happiness made him look years younger, and he stood taller somehow, his posture fully upright now. "James, and Lily… Sirius…"

"Remus will join you soon enough," Harry told him fondly. "The Marauders will ride again…"

"I would… like that," said Wormtail, and he looked… eager, now.

_Eager for what?_ wondered Hermione.

"It will hurt," Harry said, his tone growing serious. "While it's happening. You'll probably regret your decision for a moment. But afterwards… it will be exactly as I have shown you…"

"I understand." Wormtail closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them again, he stared at Harry with adoration, as an uncle might at a favorite nephew who'd just done something to fill him to the brim with pride. "_Thank you_…"

Harry nodded wordlessly, and the Animagus gave him one last smile. "You really _do_ look _just like_ James…"

And with that, the silver hand reached up and seized him by the throat, and began to strangle the life right out of him.

Hermione cried out, as did Narcissa Malfoy. Greyback, arm still held firmly in place right beside Wormtail, tried to pull himself as far away from the dying man as possible, as if afraid he would be next in line.

An expression of frightened pain filled Wormtail's face, and he retched and choked, his free hand throwing itself at the silver fingers wrapped around his windpipe, trying desperately to pry them loose.

"For God's sakes, help him!" cried Lucius, who stared at him with as much horror as his wife and Greyback did. Even Bellatrix looked aghast. A gagging noise sounded from behind, and Hermione knew that Draco was trying to hold himself back from vomiting.

Through it all, though, Harry did nothing. He merely stood and watched, his expression calm and impassive.

Wormtail was turning blue, and had sunk to his knees, his free hand dropping away numbly, his futile attempts to free himself over. He no longer looked frightened, however; the initial fear had passed, and now he appeared… _content_. His expression was tranquil, at peace. He met Hermione's appalled gaze, an almost apologetic look in his eyes, and then, as they began to lose focus, he looked up at Harry's face and nodded just slightly.

And finally, with the lightest of smiles on his face, Wormtail died, slumping over onto his side, the silver hand releasing its grip and falling lifelessly to the marble floor with a heavy _clunk_.

Harry moved slowly over to the body, leaned down, and bent his head for a moment, his eyes closed. Then, reaching out with one hand, he closed the dead man's eyes reverently, before turning and standing once more.

A horrified silence had fallen over the room. The Malfoys and Griphook stared at him as if he were Voldemort, their ashen faces filled with terror. Greyback tugged fiercely at the wrist of his immobilized wand hand, still held in place as if by an invisible manacle dangling from the ceiling, trying desperately to free himself, snarling like a trapped animal. And Bellatrix… Bellatrix was afraid, it was plain to see in her face, but she was also eyeing Harry appraisingly, as if she were considering switching masters. The thought made Hermione sick to her stomach.

As if noticing her for the first time, Harry turned to her, his face filled with regret. "I'm sorry you had to see that, Hermione," he said gently. "Don't be afraid. It's all almost over, I promise."

With a flick of his wand, the Silencing Charm on Bellatrix was lifted. "What _are_ you?" she demanded instantly, a fearful edge to her tone.

"What am I?" Harry asked, amused. "I am _ready_."

He turned back to Hermione. "Can you stand?" he asked her softly.

She nodded, and he reached down a hand, helping her to her feet, supporting her as she wobbled unsteadily. When she'd caught her balance, he gave her a kiss on the forehead and stepped back, smiling at her warmly. "I love you," he told her.

"I love you too," she whispered back, suddenly afraid.

"It's time," Harry said with heavy finality as he turned back to face Bellatrix. "Here is my offer. I will give myself over to you, to do with as you wish, in exchange for your word: the girl shall suffer no more. You will release her, and _none of you_ will cause her any more pain. Is that understood?"

"Harry, don't!" Hermione cried, as everyone else simply stared at him in surprise. "She can't be trusted! You can't do this!"

Harry looked at her, his expression _infuriatingly _pleasant. "Oh, but I _can_ trust her. In fact, I daresay Bellatrix is the most reliable person in this room." He turned back to face the Death Eaters. "Do we have a deal?"

"Yes," snarled Bellatrix, sullenly. "We will not hurt the girl."

"Excellent," Harry said, nodding.

"Harry, please, she'll—"

"Stay strong, Hermione," he said, and the love with which he said it made her tremble inside. "Don't be afraid. Everything will turn out alright, I promise you."

And he waved his wand, releasing the Death Eaters' hands. Suddenly free, they all rolled their wrists, staring at him in anger and confusion as they raised their wands nervously.

"HARRY, NO!" she cried.

"Oh!" Harry said suddenly, as though he'd forgotten something monumentally important.

Every set of eyes was glued to him, every set of ears hanging on his next words.

"Name one of them after me, will you?" he asked Hermione, a smile on his lips. And with that, he set his wand on the floor and kicked it over to Bellatrix, who scrambled to pick it up, as if afraid he might change his mind and summon it back to him if she didn't get her hands upon it as soon as possible.

_Harry can't be that stupid_, Hermione thought desperately. _It's all part of his plan… Ron's just biding his time, ready to strike… it's got to be a part of the plan… _

But in her heart, she didn't believe a word of it.

Bellatrix looked furious, humiliated. "I'm as good as my word," she snapped. "I told you that we would release the girl, and that she would suffer no more at our hands."

Cold, heavy dread sank to the bottom of Hermione's stomach, and she knew what was coming for her.

"I'll do you one better, Potter," sneered Bellatrix, raising her wand and pointing it straight at Hermione. "I'll release her from suffering entirely! She'll never feel pain again, isn't that what you wanted?"

Fear washed over Hermione, but the love she felt for Harry overruled it. She feared for him more than she feared her own death; wandless and alone, what would they do to him, after she was no longer there to comfort him?

She stared at him, wishing she could have just one last kiss from his lips before she died. The gleam of triumph she saw in his eyes startled her; and suddenly, she knew exactly what he had come here for. Knew exactly why he had made such an absurd deal when he'd had them all right where he wanted them. Knew exactly why he'd phrased his terms so precisely, so as to goad Bellatrix into doing precisely what she was about to do.

Her mouth dropped open in horror, but it was already too late.

"AVADA KEDAVRA!" roared Lestrange, and there came a brilliant flare of green light, and Harry moved with such startling speed it took them all by surprise. He leapt in front of her, and then there was a _whoosh _and a sudden gust of air as the curse hit him, and then he crumpled to the floor, as dead as Wormtail.

She screamed. She fell to her knees and cradled him against her, her heart torn in half. She wailed, and she sobbed, and she screamed at them all, screamed at him, furious and inconsolable and—and—

She was holding nothing but empty air. Where Harry had been but an instant ago there was absolutely nothing; he and his robes and his cloak had simply vanished, as had the extra wand in Bellatrix's hand. The others stared down in shock, but having him suddenly ripped from her arms did nothing to soothe her and she only wailed harder, crying out in surrender. She was beaten, finished, defeated. Destroyed.

How could the world keep going on, without him in it? How could _she_ keep going on, without him by her side?

She couldn't, she realized.

She had prayed for this, only minutes ago, coming out of the agony of the Cruciatus Curse… prayed in a moment of weakness that he would fall to the Killing Curse only, that his death would be swift and painless, that he would not endure the same kind of torture she had suffered through…

She had prayed for him to just _die_. She would never forgive herself for that, not for as long as she lived. Mercifully, she thought, it did not look like that would be much longer.

Bellatrix, looking shaken to the core, demanded Griphook be brought to her, to examine the sword, but Hermione could not make out the words, could not bring herself to care. It was over, Harry had been killed, and she was only waiting for them to get around to finishing her off too, so that she could join him. She'd also been a rational person, hadn't given much thought to life after death except to dismiss the most obvious superstitions, but… anywhere other than here, other than this world, would be welcome to her… anywhere she might be reunited with him, even if it was just cold oblivion…

"We must notify the Dark Lord of what we have seen here this night," said Bellatrix, clearly terrified of the idea. But nonetheless she pushed back her sleeve and touched her index finger to the Dark Mark, and shivered with something vile and disgusting.

Voldemort was on his way.

"And I think," said Bellatrix, her voice still quivering a little, "we can dispose of the Mudblood. Greyback, take her if you want her."

Good, thought Hermione. The savage fangs of a werewolf would be a welcome relief, after what she had been through.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Ron had burst into the drawing room; Bellatrix looked around, shocked; she turned her wand to face Ron instead—

But another voice, a strong male voice, cried out "_Expelliarmus!_", and Bellatrix's wand was flung from her grasp, and then hexes and jinxes were being flung about, and Bellatrix had seized her by the arm and forced the blade of her knife to her throat, screaming:

"STOP OR SHE DIES!"

And then, both she and Bellatrix caught sight of them, and the woman holding her hostage gasped in shock…

Harry stood before them, Ron at his side, both their wands pointed directly at her.

Hermione burst into tears again, each sob pressing her firmer against the blade. No… it couldn't be… she was imagining it… a cruel trick of her subconscious mind…

And then many things happened all at once, but she was hardly aware of any of them. The chandelier dropped, right atop her and Bellatrix. Pinned and bleeding beneath the chains and broken crystals, she saw Harry—yes, it _was_ Harry, she realized with a start—wrestle some wands away from Draco and point them at Greyback, sending the werewolf flying into the ceiling and crashing into the floor. Then strong arms were wrapping around her, dragging her out of the rubble, and she was being forced through a thin rubber tube and suddenly it was cold and her blood was dripping onto the snow…

The most beautiful green emerald eyes stared down at her in anxious panic, and that was the last thing she saw before the darkness claimed her.

* * *

He buried Dobby just before dawn, sprinkled the grave with the last clump of reddish dirt just as the first golden rays of sunlight peeked over the horizon.

The house-elf had Apparated in right behind him and Ron, Bellatrix's short silver knife emerging from his little chest, crumpling to the ground, a terrible stain emanating from his wound across his tea-cozy…

Dobby had died with his name on his lips as he'd stared down at him in horror, Hermione slumped unconscious in his arms. "_Harry… Potter…_"

Famous last words.

There had been nothing he could do for her; Fleur and Ron had taken her into the cottage, and he'd remained behind to bury the elf… no, to bury his friend…

After the others had said a few words over the grave, he'd stayed behind, trying to tune out the rage that echoed through his scar as he felt Voldemort punish those left behind at Malfoy Manor. The images he saw through their connection were confusing to him, but for once he was not in the mood to eavesdrop on his mortal foe; the grief he felt at Dobby's passing calmed it, overwhelmed it, and so made it so that it merely flickered at the edge of his consciousness, like a distant storm that reached him across a vast, silent ocean.

He began to carve a gravestone out of one of the large, flat white rocks arranged around the flowerbeds. Slowly, under his murmured instruction, deep cuts appeared upon the rock's surface. He thought that Hermione could have done it more neatly, and probably more quickly, and the thought made him ache. Desperately, he tried not to think of how close he had come to losing her that night… better to think of Dobby, and the gaping hole his death had left in his heart, then contemplate what would be left of him if he ever lost Hermione…

When Harry stood up again, the stone read:

HERE LIES DOBBY, A FREE ELF

And with that all behind him, he suddenly couldn't stand the thought of being apart from her one second longer. He turned and walked away, making his way up the garden path to Shell Cottage.

"…lucky that Ginny's on holiday. If she'd been at Hogwarts, they could have taken her before we reached her. Now we know she's safe too," he heard Bill telling the others as he entered.

The eldest Weasley son looked up and saw him standing there. "I've been getting them all out of the Burrow," he explained. "Moved them to Muriel's. The Death Eaters know Ron's with you now, they're bound to target the family—don't apologize," he added at the sight of Harry's expression. "It was always a matter of time, Dad's been saying so for months. We're the biggest blood-traitor family there is."

"How are they protected?" asked Harry.

"Fidelius Charm. Dad's Secret-Keeper. And we've done it on this cottage too; I'm Secret-Keeper here. None of us can go to work, but that's hardly the most important thing now. Once Ollivander and Griphook are well enough, we'll move them to Muriel's too. There isn't much room here, but she's got plenty. Griphook's legs are on the mend, Fleur's given him Skele-Gro; we could probably move them in an hour or—"

"No," Harry said, and Bill looked startled. "I need both of them here. I need to talk to them. It's important."

They stared at him. He knew they wanted answers, wanted to know what he was doing, how they could help, but he couldn't give them anything of the sort. Couldn't involve them. Not the way he'd involved Dobby. Not the way he'd involved Hermione.

"I'm going to wash," he told Bill, looking down at his hands, still covered in mud and Dobby's blood. "Then I'm going to go talk to Hermione, and then I'll need to see them, straightaway."

Without another word he made his way to the cottage's little kitchen, rolled up his sleeves in front of the sink, and began to wash his hands, scrubbing away the accumulated blood and grime, washing away the fear he had felt the night before. The sunrise was in full swing, now, glorious swathes of pink and gold, but he ignored it; the fear was gone, Hermione was alive, but the sense of hopelessness he had felt…

He needed to see her, needed to know she was alright.

Needed to sit with her for a while, watch her sleep, watch her breathe.

He dried his hands, and walked back into the living room; Fleur gave him a knowing look and a quiet nod in the direction of the stairs, and mouthed at him the words "_On ze left_." He bowed his head a little, grateful, and trudged on up the stairs, knocking on the first door on the left.

"Come in," called Ron's voice, and he opened the door to find him sitting at Hermione's side. She looked awful, but she was wide awake and had recovered enough of her strength to sit upright in bed.

She stared at him, as though he'd cocked his head and had it nearly fallen off but for a thin flap of skin, like Nearly-Headless Nick.

"I don't understand…" she whispered, but the tears that began to fill her eyes were not of sorrow but of delight. "I never thought I would see you again!"

"We were afraid we'd lost you too, Hermione," Ron told her earnestly.

"No, you weren't there, you have no idea…" she replied forcefully, and taking a deep breath, she told them everything that had happened to her after they'd been separated.

Harry's mind reeled. He didn't know what to think. A part of him knew and trusted Hermione, but another part of him thought that the strain of the torture might have gotten to her a little. For while he was more than willing to throw himself in front of a Killing Curse if it meant saving Hermione… he hadn't actually done it, that night, and so what she was saying made no sense. Especially the part about Pettigrew; he knew that he would _never_ forgive that man for what he had done to him.

He wanted to sit next to her, to put his arm around her, to whisper his love for her in her ear and plant kisses all over her… but Ron was still there, and so he remained standing at the foot of her bed, just gazing down at her, hoping she could see in his eyes how _elated_ he was to be with her safe and sound once more.

"You were amazing, Hermione," Ron told her after they'd sat in silence, mulling over her story, for long enough. "You never gave in, even under all that torture… I'd have confessed the whole deal right after the first _Crucio_…"

Hermione stiffened at his casual usage of the curse's incantation, and Ron must have noticed because he shut up abruptly after that.

For a while, at least. A few moments later, he spoke again, his tone lighter. "You look great, though, Fleur did a great job healing up all those cuts…"

Hermione raised her head up enough so that both boys could see the thin red scar that was the result of Bellatrix's cutting her with the same knife that had killed Dobby.

"Well, you know what they say, blokes dig scars…" Ron said, trying to lighten the mood.

Harry had had enough. "Ron, go get some air, will you?" he said curtly, all pretense about bird-watching forgotten. Ron looked at him, shocked, but one glance at the dire expression on his best mate's face had him convinced it would be best for his own personal safety if he complied.

He left the door open behind him when he left; Harry didn't even wait for the redhead to take two steps past the threshold before he thrust one of the wands he'd seized from Draco at the door frame and snapped "_Colloportus!_" The door slammed shut behind him and the lock clicked loudly.

Hopefully he'd get the message.

"Shhh… it's okay now, we're together now…" he told her soothingly as he saw her eyes fill with tears, unable to avoid thinking of the way she had cried on the night he'd first kissed her. He climbed into the bed with her, taking her hand in his and leaning in to kiss her gently on the forehead.

"We'll _always _be together," he said seriously. Could he ever put it fully into words, though? Ever truly make her understand, just how much he needed her in his life?

"Promise?" she asked, her voice soft and like a child's, her fingers gripping his in sheer desperation, a little too tightly for his comfort.

"I swear," he whispered, and then they were kissing, and all the fear, all the pain, all the unhappiness… it was all just swept away…

He knew that he in no way deserved someone who could make him feel so _good_, but he knew from her kiss, from the soft whimpers she made, from the way her fingers brushed through his hair, that she felt the same way because of him, and the thought made him brim with pride…

His own selfish need for her aside, he would gladly stay by her side for the rest of eternity, if only to make her as happy as she had made him.

He kissed her, and felt the need growing within him, felt his hunger for her rippling through him as the kiss deepened.

Somewhere, he thought madly, through the connection of his scar, Lord Voldemort must be all of a sudden looking at Bellatrix Lestrange very keenly.

_Gross_.

But the thought made him smile into the kiss anyway.

Finally he'd reached his breaking point and broke away from her, planting a soft peck on the tip of her nose and then another on her forehead again.

"I should go," he told her regretfully. "Bill's waiting for me, there's something I need to talk about with Griphook and Ollivander…"

"Don't leave me," she whispered. "You promised."

She looked terrible; pale and exhausted, circles under her eyes and her hair a tangled mess. But it made her seem rather primal, somehow, fierce and untamable. And the _look_ she was giving him…

He had never wanted _anything_ in his entire life as badly as he wanted her at that moment.

"Hermione…" he pleaded, already knowing that he would end up giving in to her. "You need your rest…"

"I need _you_," she breathed, and that was the end of it.

Their lips crashed back together forcefully, and she growled at him as he pinned her to the mattress, her insistent hands tugging at his back and waist until there was no more space between them. Their tongues danced, nipping back in forth, playfully at first, then more and more demanding as their desires were pushed to new heights.

Her hands slid beneath his shirt, and she raked her nails along his stomach as she slid them up to clutch at his chest. He gasped, and then broke from the kiss once more, her mewl of protest transfigured into a delicious sigh as he brought his mouth to her neck, nibbling down and around her perfect curves to worship her collarbone. He only delayed there for a moment before continuing downward, however, and somehow both their hands were tugging her shirt over her head as one…

He pulled the bedspread over them, and a throaty, female moan filled the air from beneath it.

He wasn't entirely certain how he'd been stripped of all his clothes; he remembered impatient, tugging hands, and soft breasts pressing against his chest and hastily unbuckled trousers, but it was all a blur to him. All he knew for certain is that he was laying atop her, and both of them were completely starkers except for their socks, and she was making the most _sensuous _panting sounds, eager and full of longing…

"Hang on a second," he huffed, and bringing his legs up he ripped off both socks and tossed them forcefully across the room; somewhere, in the back of his mind, he considered it a final, fitting tribute to Dobby…

And then all thoughts of the fallen elf were blown away, because she was grasping him _there_, and pulling him towards her waiting hips…

"Are you sure?" he gasped, hating himself for asking such a question but needing to know she wouldn't have any regrets later. "Absolutely sure?"

Merlin help him if she wanted to back out now…

"_Yes_," she told him throatily, and then their mouths were joined again, and she lined him up and the instincts of a hundred thousand generations took over and they both _moved_…

She whimpered, and pushed on his hips to indicate he shouldn't move just yet, and he was sure that her face was not supposed to be all scrunched up like that until later. Even when he was finally entirely within her, seeing the tears in her eyes moved him, made him kiss her even more passionately, made him lie still and give her the chance to adjust.

When they finally began again, their motions were awkward at first, raw and inexperienced, her breathing pained, his eyes wide and unseeing. They were all bony joints and sweat and tears, and _minutes_ passed and he was beginning to worry that he'd chosen the wrong time, that this would be as good as it ever got…..

And then they moved together in _just_ the right way, and she gasped.

"Oh!" she cried. "Like that!"

And things began to speed up. Their eyes met, and her hands slid along his back, gripping at his shoulders one moment, sliding down to pull greedily at his arse the next. He brought his own hands to her chest, cupping a perfect, shapely breast in each palm, eliciting a moan of approval from her lips, and together they rocked, reaching towards heaven together.

Their mouths locked in a frenzied kiss, their hands gripping tightly at one another's bodies, their hips bucking and thrusting, the sound of their groans and sighs filling the air with the passion for one another that simply could be contained no longer…

It occurred to him that he should have cast a Silencing Charm at some prior point, and sincerely he hoped that Ron had indeed heeded his advice and gone outside for a breath of some fresh air.

It wouldn't do for him to hear this, not at all.

Her mouth was kissing his neck ravenously, moving to lick and suck her way up until she'd reached his ear, and she _moaned_…

"_I'm yours_," she moaned as he pounded into her again and again, "_Only yours_," and he was pushed past the limit.

He growled as he plunged into the absolute depths of her, emptying himself within her, his eyes rolling back in his head, wave after wave of the ultimate bliss carrying him away with it, and she gave the softest of sighs, content and elated and utterly in love with him…

That was his new favorite sound, he thought, that sigh…

Slowly, he came back down to Earth, felt her beneath him, felt himself still inside of her, and she was looking at him sleepily with those gorgeous chocolate eyes of her and he knew he was quite simply the happiest man on Earth, and always would be, as long as he had her.

He tried to tell her that, tried to explain that he loved her more than words could say, that he couldn't live without her, that he never wanted to be apart from her ever again, wanted to make love to her every morning and every night and father her children and grow old and gray together with her, tried to make her understand that to him they had shared something far more sacred than a mere physical act… that she had touched his soul…

What came out instead was a loud, dorky, "Wow."

"Yeah," she said between deep breaths, and brought her head up to give him a chaste peck on the lips.

"Wow," he said again, because it would be some time before his vocabulary would again expand beyond monosyllabic utterances.

"I think," she told him softly, stretching luxuriously beneath him as he slid out of her and the two moved together to cuddle in the afterglow, "that I want to spend the rest of my life doing that with you."

He nodded his consent happily, and the two kissed again, this time slowly and tenderly.

It was a long while before he got around to speaking with either the goblin or the wandmaker, and when he finally did leave the room, shutting the door softly behind him while Hermione slumbered, Fleur gave him a knowing smile when he came down the stairs and into the living room.

He didn't care in the slightest. He had bigger concerns, now, the crushing burden of responsibility pressing down upon him, its tedious weight a familiar friend. He was almost to the end, he knew.

In the very fiber of his being he knew that Voldemort's reign of terror had to be brought to an end, that the Dark Lord had to be destroyed once and for all. Not just to put a stop to all the death and destruction and oppression, not just to restore liberty once more to the wizarding world, not just to save the lives of the Muggles and Muggleborns who would die under his tyrrany…

He would never be able to be with Hermione, _really _be with her, be there _for_ her, while Voldemort still lived. He would never be able to live the life he wanted until every last Horcrux was destroyed, the last Death Eater sent to Azkaban, and Voldemort was cold and dead in his grave.

_Neither can live while the other survives_.

He would end it. There were a thousand reasons why, but only one truly mattered.

Her, and the life he wanted with her.


	17. Chapter XIV

**Chapter XIV**

**The Close**

**Disclaimer:** We're too close to the end for the unprotected sex of the last chapter to become a plot point, but allow me to take this disclaimer to make a very obvious, very after-school-special-esque statement:

Unless you are actively trying to make a little witch or wizard, always use contraceptive spells.

**Author's Note:** I'm glad to see that the Wormtail scene was received so positively; and to think it almost made it to the cutting room floor! I'd never planned on it, the exchange just popped into my head while I was laying in bed one night, and wouldn't leave me alone. I was worried that it might not feel that relevant to the ongoing plot of the story, but I figure my Harry would take his Master of Death duties seriously and 'pay it forward' one last time before rejoining the Whole, and it makes part two of this chapter a heck of a lot better, in my humble opinion.

For the record, Wormtail's death wasn't suicide; he only chose to step back onto the right path knowing full well what the consequences of that decision would be, and was strangled to death by the silver hand for failing to carrying out his master's will, just as in Deathly Hallows. I think it's a bit more poignant, this way, but YMMV.

The end is drawing ever closer, friends. I'm writing the final chapter now, and it should be up either tomorrow or the day after that. With luck, the epilogue will be posted on July 7th, exactly one month to the day since **Time is the Fire** began; it seems fitting, somehow.

Happy Fourth of July to my American readers! To my readers across the rest of the world... enjoy the chapter? Also, is YMMV actually YKmMV in countries using the metric system?

**Soundtrack Note: **Hedwig's Theme, from the Sorcerer's Stone soundtrack, and Dark Mark from the Goblet of Fire soundtrack.

* * *

"Death cannot stop true love, all it can do is delay it for a while."

-The Dread Pirate Roberts

Fred Weasley was dead.

She had only felt this feeling once before. Being tortured at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange… being buried alive beneath cursed, burning gold in a Gringott's bank vault… screaming, as she clung desperately the neck of a dragon, as they blasted through a wall and tore across the sky… nearly being incinerated by Crabbe's Fiendfyre as it raced after them, hungry for human flesh…

None of that even came close to the fact that Fred Weasley was dead. None of that even came close to the fact that when she looked down at his body, his all-to-pale face still crinkled in laughter, all she could see was _him_…

All she could see was Harry, half vanished beneath his Invisibility Cloak, crumbled on the floor before her, as if only asleep. Asleep, but for the fact that he stared at her with the same glassy eyes she saw now looking down at Fred… asleep, but for the fact that he had thrown himself before the Killing Curse, saving her life at the cost of her own.

But Harry was not dead, he was standing at her side, holding her hand in his own, and _that_ was what made no sense to her. She had _seen_ him, seen him _die_, and yet he stood at her side, holding her hand as she stared down in shock at the Weasley brothers, shaking their brother violently, trying to rouse him.

She was in shock, she knew, and everything happened in snippets, and then she'd find herself running or hiding somewhere; there came screams, and later she'd remember that hers had been one of them, as the giant Acromantula forced itself through the hole in the wall… screams, and then flashes of red spell-light and they were dragging Fred's body to safety…

Ron wanted blood, and so did she, so did Harry… and she was crying, they were all crying, but she knew they had to carry on, had to finish it, had to destroy the snake… it was the only Horcrux left, the hardest one to kill, for Voldemort would be watching over it himself…

They ran, Death Eaters hot on their tail, and she pointed her wand at the staircase and shouted "_Glisseo!_", and the stairs they stood upon were transfigured into a chute and they slid down a breakneck speed, curses zipping just inches over their heads…

They shot out through the concealing tapestry on the other side, hitting the far wall, and crumbled on top of the others she thrust her wand backwards and snapped out "_Duro!_" just as the Death Eaters came around the bend in the slide…

There came two loud, sickening crunches, and then they were picking themselves up and double checking that nothing was broken, Ron and Harry staring open-mouthed at the now rock-solid tapestry, an awed look upon both their faces…

But there was no time to contemplate the Death Eaters' demise. They had to get to the snake, had to rush past the duels, had to dodge wrestling giants and Fenrir Greyback, because stopping for even a moment meant they'd never get there…

They'd never get there, because the sight of Fred's dead body, the sight of _Harry's_ dead body, would come rushing back with a vengeance and she would sink to the floor and sob and never get up again…

The heavy wooden doors of the castle burst open, and in poured horde after horde of the giant spiders, screams filling the air as they lunged for student and Death Eater alike…

Something huge and burly shoved them to the side, and she could hear Harry roar, "HAGRID, NO!", but it was too late, the half-giant had thundered past them down the stairs, brandishing his flowery pink umbrella.

"Don't hurt 'em, don't hurt 'em!" he yelled.

Harry sprinted out from beneath the cloak, running after the groundskeeper, but he was too late: Hagrid vanished amongst the spiders, and with a great scurrying, a foul swarming movement, they retreated under the onslaught of spells, Hagrid buried in their midst.

"HAGRID!" screamed Harry.

"HARRY!" screamed Hermione, but she didn't think he could hear her. He was sprinting down the front steps into the dark grounds, and the spiders were swarming away with their prey. An enormous arm briefly emerged from the midst of a spider swarm, but as he made to run for it a giant foot swung down and brought him tumbling to the ground with the force of its impact.

A giant.

"RUN!" roared Harry as she caught up to him, Ron trailing close behind; he seized her by the hand tore down the steps, dragging him after her towards the grounds, away from Grawp and the titanic foe he'd thrown himself at.

A chill overwhelmed her, the sounds of the battle dimming and becoming unimportant, and she knew that any second now she would be back in Malfoy Manor, standing over him and those horrible, glassy eyes… and she would be lost for all time…

"Come on, Harry!" she managed to force out. "Patronuses, Harry, come on!"

He looked at her dully, and already she could see that he was back in that cellar, listening to her screaming at the top of her lungs…

"HARRY, COME ON!" she shrieked.

A hundred dementors pressed towards them across the grounds, draining the air of all hope, all decency, leaving only polluted desolation in their wake…

Ron's silver terrier burst into the air, only to flicker and vanish; her own otter Patronus twisted in mid-air and faded; and Harry's hands only trembled, incapable of sending forth Prongs… and then it was deathly silent, and she was staring down the wand of Belatrix Lestrange, who was sneering, "_I'll do you one better, Potter! I'll release her from suffering entirely! She'll never feel pain again, isn't that what you wanted?_"

There came a flash of light, but it was bright silver, not emerald green, and then she was standing on the Hogwarts ground again, a hare, boar and fox streaking past overhead.

The dementors fell back before the creatures' approach. Three more people had arrived out of the darkness to stand beside them, their wands outstretched, continuing to cast their Patronuses: Luna, Ernie, and Seamus.

"That's right," said Luna encouragingly, as if they were back in the Room of Requirement and this was simply spell practice for the D.A. "That's right, Harry… come on, think of something happy…"

"Something happy?" he said, his voice crackeing.

"We're all still here," Luna whispered, "we're still fighting. Come on, now…"

Hermione seized him by the arm, spun him around, and planted her lips on his with a searing intensity. "_Yours_," she whispered in his ear when the kiss broke. "_Only yours_." He stared at her wildly for a second before whipping back around and jamming out his wand forcefully.

"_EXPECTO PATRONUM!_" he roared, and the light was _blinding_, absolutely _blinding_, as Prongs rocketed forth, head lowered for the charge, and the dementors weren't driven back so much as they were set adrift in the wave after wave of silver light that emanated from Harry's Patronus. Hermione knew that dementors could not be destroyed, that they simply had no physical form to wipe out, but drifting harmlessly, ripped and shredded as they were in Prong's light, she knew that these at least would cause no one else any harm this night.

Then they were running again, more giants crashing across the grounds, and they'd made it to the Whomping Willow, bent over double, so out of breath she could not speak. Harry and Ron were looking around wildly, trying to find a way to get to the knot and immobilize the tree, keep it from pummeling them as they made their way to the secret passage beneath its roots.

There was no _time_ for any of this. "_Wingardium Leviosa!_" she wheezed, wand thrust outwards, and a twig zipped off the ground and struck the precise point it needed to. The writhing tree fell eerily still, its arms frozen in place harmlessly.

"Perfect!" panted Ron.

And time skipped ahead again and she found herself hiding in the passageway, just outside the Shrieking Shack, hidden beneath the cloak, the three friends eavesdropping on Lord Voldemort, and his most loyal, most able servant.

"Let me find the boy. Let me bring you Potter. I know I can find him, my Lord. Please," pleaded the voice of Severus Snape.

"I have a problem, Severus," said Voldemort softly.

"My Lord?" said Snape.

Voldemort raised the Elder Wand, holding it as delicately and precisely as a conductor's baton.

"Why doesn't it work for me, Severus?"

"My—my Lord?" said Snape blankly. "I do not understand. You—you have performed extraordinary magic with that wand."

"No," said Voldemort. "I have performed my usual magic. I am extraordinary, but this wand... no. It has not revealed the wonders it has promised. I feel no difference between this wand and the one I procured from Ollivander all those years ago."

"I have thought long and hard, Severus… Do you know why I have called you back from the battle?"

"No, my Lord, but I beg you will let me return. Let me find Potter."

Why was Snape so fixated on finding Harry? Did he truly hate him that much? No… that desperate tenor was not the Potion Master's familiar sneer of contempt…

"You sound like Lucius. Neither of you understands Potter as I do. He does not need finding. Potter will come to me. I know his weakness, you see, his one great flaw. He will hate watching the others struck down around him, knowing that it is for him that it happens. He will want to stop it at any cost. He will come."

That was true, she thought. But it was no weakness, no flaw.

It was the reason she'd fallen in love with him, all those nights ago, when he'd sent her back through a wall of purple flames, determined to see her to safety before he went on ahead to risk his life protecting the Stone…

Tears began to fall down her cheeks.

"I sought a third wand, Severus," continued Voldemort. "The Elder Wand, the Wand of Destiny, the Deathstick. I took it from its previous master. I took it from the grave of Albus Dumbledore."

Harry stiffened beside her, and she saw that he'd bitten down hard on his knuckles, trying to keep from crying out. She knew, all of a sudden, that he was not just eavesdropping on Voldemort. A part of him, the part that was connected to him through that lightning-shaped scar… a part of him _was_ Voldemort, at that moment, and the expression on his face flickered between Harry's own horror at what was about to come next and Voldemort's simmering, seething rage…

She took his hand in hers, forcing his fingers apart so she could fit her own between them. She squeezed, tightly, giving him an anchor, something to hang on to, something to come back to, and his eyes flickered over to her in gratitude.

"My Lord—let me go to the boy—" pleaded Snape again.

And she recognized the tone. And it went through her like a cold chill, the knowledge, because she knew in that very instant just who Snape was, who he had always been, though he might have pretended otherwise.

She knew that were it _her_ out there, standing before Lord Voldemort, she too would plead for Harry's life with the same exact desperate voice…

"All this long night, when I am on the brink of victory, I have sat here," said Voldemort, his voice barely louder than a whisper, "wondering, wondering, why the Elder Wand refuses to be what it ought to be, refuses to perform as legend says it must perform for its rightful owner… and I think I have the answer."

Snape did not speak.

"Perhaps you already know it? You are a clever man, after all, Severus. You have been a good and faithful servant, and I regret what must happen."

"My Lord—"

"The Elder Wand cannot serve me properly, Severus, because I am not its true master. The Elder Wand belongs to the wizard who killed its last owner. You killed Albus Dumbledore. While you live, Severus, the Elder Wand cannot be truly mine."

"My Lord!" Snape protested, raising his wand.

"It cannot be any other way," said Voldemort. "I must master the wand, Severus. Master the wand, and I master Potter at last."

And Severus Snape died. Not right away, of course. He emitted a terrible scream, as the fangs of Nagini sank into his neck, and he fell to the floor, leaking blood everywhere, his eyes widening in mortal agony and fear.

"I regret it," said Voldemort coldly, and he swept from the room without a backward glance, taking the snake with him.

In an instant Harry was standing over the man, who gargled sickly as his eyes focused on the boy.

Snape seized him by the robes and pulled him close, and Ron started and drew his wand. She seized the redhead's wrist and stayed his hand. She knew now who Severus Snape really was, though she did not yet know _why_.

A terrible rasping, gurgling noise issued from Snape's throat. "Take... it… Take... it…"

It poured out of him slowly, in startling contrast to the blood; cool gaseous silver flowing over hot, liquid scarlet. Harry gaped at the man, but she knew that this was the answer, the answer to all of their questions, to all of their confusion. She conjured a glass flask, and pressed it into his shaking hands wordlessly.

Touching the tip of his wand to the silvery substance, he collected it in the flask. When it was finished, Snape looked drained, empty.

"Look… at… me…" he whispered, and slackened his grip on Harry's robes.

And then, gazing into Harry's eyes, he died.

Hermione knew that when her time came, she wanted to be gazing into those eyes, too.

A voice sounded, Voldemort's voice, and their heads whipped around, but it did not come from within the shack. The Dark Lord was elsewhere, now, and had amplified his voice so that it could be heard all across Hogsmeade and the school grounds.

"You have fought valiantly. Lord Voldemort knows how to value bravery. Yet you have sustained heavy losses. If you continue to resist me, you will all die, one by one. I do not wish this to happen. Every drop of magical blood spilled is a loss and a waste. Lord Voldemort is merciful. I command my forces to retreat immediately. You have one hour. Dispose of your dead with dignity. Treat your injured.

"I speak now, Harry Potter, directly to you. You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself. I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden Forest. If, at the end of that hour, you have not come to me, have not given yourself up, then battle recommences. This time, I shall enter the fray myself, Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish every last man, woman, and child who has tried to conceal you from me. One hour."

"Don't listen to him," said Ron.

"It'll be all right," said Hermione wildly. "Let's—let's get back to the castle, if he's gone to the forest we'll need to think of a new plan—"

But no plan would bring back the dead. No plan would return Fred to them, return Snape. She mourned for them, yes, even Snape, though she could not yet understand how the man who had murdered Dumbledore, the man who had hated Harry with such a passion, could have spoken of him in his final moments with such love, such quiet desperation.

Somehow, they found themselves on the path leading to the castle. They stumbled up the steps and passed through its broken and battered doors. There was not a soul in sight; not a sound could be heard, neither the whistling of hexes nor the clattering of running footsteps. The battle had well and truly ceased.

And in one hour, it would all begin anew.

And this time, none of them would survive. They would all be wiped from the face of the Earth, and Voldemort would claim the castle for himself. It would all be over.

They had to kill the damned snake.

"Where is everybody?" she whispered, unnerved. Voldemort had threatened to kill everyone still standing against him in order to rattle Harry. Surely that threat was only possible if there were still survivors hiding in the castle, right?

Ron led the way to the Great Hall. They stopped in the doorway.

The House tables were gone and the room was crowded. The survivors stood in groups, their arms around each other's necks.

The injured were being treated upon the raised platform by Madam Pomfrey and a group of helpers. Firenze was amongst the injured; his flank poured blood and he shook where he lay, unable to stand. The dead lay in a row in the middle of the Hall. They could not see Fred's body, because his family surrounded him. George was kneeling at his head; Mrs. Weasley was lying across Fred's chest, her body shaking, Mr. Weasley stroking her hair while tears cascaded down his cheeks.

Beside Fred lay Remus and Tonks, pale and still and peaceful-looking, apparently asleep beneath the dark, enchanted ceiling.

She began to weep.

So much death.

Ginny caught her eye, the girl's face swollen and blotchy, and she threw her arms around her, the redhead bawling into her shoulder, while she whispered futile, meaningless words of comfort into the girl's hair, trying desperately to stay her own tears.

Ron had shuffled forward to join Bill, Fleur, and Percy, who flung an arm around his shoulders. Together, the Weasley sons sobbed.

They could not have all died in vain. She wouldn't allow it. The thought was like poison to her; she needed to come up with a plan, needed to figure out a way to destroy the final Horcrux, to kill Nagini, to make Voldemort mortal once more…

Arm still around Ginny, the two made their way closer to the family. She needed to speak to Harry, needed to decide their next move… if only they still had the Sword of Gryffindor…

She looked around, and felt her entire body seize up in sheer, unadulterated fear.

Harry was nowhere to be seen.

She had been so _stupid!_

"_Harry!_" she screamed as she hurried towards the doors of the hall, where she'd last seen him. "_HARRY!_"

It had been such an obvious mistake. Never, _never_ take your eyes off of him, not for one second, not when you _knew_ he was being tempted to go off alone and get himself killed.

One hour.

Voldemort had given him one hour to turn himself over. One hour for him to show himself, or the Dark Lord would slaughter every man, woman and child who'd dared remain at Hogwarts.

_Of_ _course_ he'd go off to meet his challenge.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Her head swung around, wildly, desperately, but she saw no sign of him.

She was going to burn that invisibility cloak in Fiendfyre when she got her hands on him.

She took off, running down the corridor, towards the stairs, the icy cold hand of panic seizing her heart within its iron grip, clenching and unclenching rapidly until her heartbeat was pounding in her ears.

He'd already died for her, once, back at Malfoy Manor. She didn't yet understand it, couldn't fathom how it had happened, how he'd managed to somehow survive with no recollection whatsoever of what he had done, but she did know one thing.

She would _not_ let him die again.

* * *

"_Does it make a difference, being Muggle-born?"_

_Snape hesitated. His black eyes, eager in the greenish gloom, moved over the pale face, the dark red hair._

"_No," he said. "It doesn't make any difference."_

…

"_I wish… I wish _I_ were dead…."_

"_And what use would that be to anyone?" said Dumbledore coldly. "If you loved Lily Evans, if you truly loved her, then your way forward is clear."_

"_What—what do you mean?"_

"_You know how and why she died. Make sure it was not in vain. Help me protect Lily's son."_

_There was a long pause, and slowly Snape regained control of himself, mastered his own breathing. At last he said, "Very well. Very well. But never—never tell, Dumbledore! This must be between us! Swear it! I cannot bear… especially Potter's son… I want your word!"_

"_My word, Severus, that I shall never reveal the best of you?"_

_Dumbledore sighed, looking down into Snape's ferocious, anguished face. "If you insist…"_

…

"_Well?" murmured Dumbledore._

"_Karkaroff 's Mark is becoming darker too. He is panicking, he fears retribution; you know how much help he gave the Ministry after the Dark Lord fell." Snape looked sideways at Dumbledore's crooked-nosed profile. "Karkaroff intends to flee if the Mark burns."_

"_Does he?" said Dumbledore softly, as Fleur Delacour and Roger Davies came giggling in from the grounds. "And are you tempted to join him?"_

"_No," said Snape, his black eyes on Fleur's and Roger's retreating figures. "I am not such a coward."_

"_No," agreed Dumbledore. "You are a braver man by far than Igor Karkaroff. You know, I sometimes think we Sort too soon…"_

_He walked away, leaving Snape looking stricken…_

…

"_So the boy… the boy must die?" asked Snape quite calmly._

"_And Voldemort himself must do it, Severus. That is essential." Dumbledore's voice was hard and firm, the familiar twinkle notably absent from his pale blue eyes._

_Another long silence. Then Snape said, "I thought… all these years… that we were protecting him for her. For Lily."_

"_We have protected him because it has been essential to teach him, to raise him, to let him try his strength," said Dumbledore, his eyes still tight shut. "Meanwhile, the connection between them grows ever stronger, a parasitic growth: Sometimes I have thought he suspects it himself. If I know him, he will have arranged matters so that when he does set out to meet his death, it will truly mean the end of Voldemort."_

_Dumbledore opened his eyes. Snape looked horrified._

"_You have used me."_

"_Meaning?"_

"_I have spied for you and lied for you, put myself in mortal danger for you. Everything was supposed to be to keep Lily Potter's son safe. Now you tell me you have been raising him like a pig for slaughter—"_

"_But this is touching, Severus," said Dumbledore seriously. "Have you grown to care for the boy, after all?"_

"_For _him_?" shouted Snape. _"Expecto Patronum!"

_From the tip of his wand burst the silver doe: She landed on the office floor, bounded once across the office, and soared out of the window. Dumbledore watched her fly away, and as her silvery glow faded he turned back to Snape, and his eyes were full of tears._

"_After all this time?"_

"_Always," snapped Snape._

…

Harry stumbled back from Dumbledore's Pensieve, a sick taste in his mouth. At last he knew the truth.

He knew now the significance of Snape's dying words to him.

"_Look… at… me…_"

He was the spitting image of his father, he'd been told a thousand times, all except for his eyes…

Snape had wanted the last thing he saw before he died to be Lily Evans' eyes.

Tears began to fill those eyes, now, and he willed himself not to cry. He knew he would have done the same, had Hermione chosen Ron, instead of him… he would have given everything, risked everything to protect her… and had he failed, he would endure it all over again, if only to protect her son…

The tears began sliding freely down his cheeks, and he choked back a sob.

His heart was pounding fiercely in his chest. How strange that in his dread of death, it pumped all the harder, valiantly keeping him alive. But it would have to stop, and soon. Its beats were numbered. How many would there be time for, as he rose and walked through the castle for the last time, out into the grounds and into the forest?

He was the final Horcrux.

How long had the old headmaster known? Since the beginning, of course.

"_You can speak Parseltongue, Harry_," he had told him so calmly, all those many years ago, "_because Lord Voldemort—who _is_ the last remaining descendant of Salazar Slytherin—can speak Parseltongue. Unless I'm much mistaken, he transferred some of his own powers to you the night he gave you that scar. Not something he intended to do, I'm sure_…"

What a stroke of good luck for the old man, that he had been sorted into Gryffindor! How fortuitous for his many plans, that the boy was of such a noble and self-sacrificing temperament, that he would not allow anyone else to die for him, once he had learned the truth. How neat, how elegant, not to waste any more lives, but to give the most dangerous task to the boy who had already been marked for slaughter, and whose death would not be a calamity, but another blow against Voldemort.

Like rain on a cold window, these thoughts pattered against the hard surface of the incontrovertible truth, which was that he must die. _I must die_. It must end. Drying his tears on his sleeve, he walked across the darkened study, strangely numb to it all.

He'd been a fool. A _fool_, to believe he'd be allowed a long and happy life with her. A fool, to think that he might one day marry her, that they would have children and a home and everything he'd ever wanted, to think that the universe would allow him so much, when it had always denied him before.

He'd never been intended to survive past this night.

It hit him like a physical blow, going down the stairs, and he swayed and reached out for the wall to steady himself. His breath began coming in quick pants, and he knew he was on the verge of hyperventilating.

He thought of her, arms wrapping around Ginny in the Great Hall, both girls sobbing, and he realized that that was the last time he would ever see her. He could not go back to her now, knowing that he was destined to die within the hour. He could not bear it, to see it in her face as she learned the truth, to listen to her angry denials, to see the tears in her eyes as she realized he was serious… to hit her with a Stunning Spell, when she refused to let him leave the hall, for he knew full well that that is what it would take to stop her, if he were so foolish as to tell her the truth…

He knew he was being hypocritical. He knew that he was brushing aside her need for him, a need as intense as his own need for her. He knew that if their places were switched, if he had to be the one left behind, while _she_ went off to her death...

If it were her, if he'd ever had to watch her die...

He didn't know what he would do. But nothing on this Earth, nothing in all of heaven and all of hell would stop him from preventing that from ever happening to her.

He felt his resolve crumbling, felt his need for her, his love for her, tearing him in two… he wanted to stay, _needed_ to stay, needed to _be_ with her…

He thought of what Voldemort would do to her if he failed to stop him once and for all, and he hardened like cold steel. If his death could prevent her from coming to harm…

Well, there simply wasn't any other choice, was there?

He liked to think that he would do it anyway, if it weren't for her, liked to think that he'd still be willing to sacrifice himself to save his friends, to save his home (Hogwarts was the only place that had ever been a true home to him, apart from being in her arms), but the truth was… he wasn't sure. All he knew was that as long as Voldemort lived, she was in danger, and that he had the chance to stop it. Simple as that.

But the snake still lived…

Harry pulled the Invisibility Cloak over himself and descended through the floors, at last walking down the marble staircase into the entrance hall. Perhaps some tiny part of him hoped to be sensed, to be seen, to be stopped, but the Cloak was, as ever, impenetrable, perfect. _Hallowed_.

He had no doubt now that he was wearing the cloak of Ignotus Peverell, and it allowed him to reach the front doors easily.

Then Neville nearly walked into him. He was one half of a pair that was carrying a body in from the grounds. Harry glanced down and felt another dull blow to his stomach: Colin Creevey, though underage, must have sneaked back just as Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle had done. He was tiny in death.

"You know what? I can manage him alone, Neville," said Oliver Wood, and he heaved Colin over his shoulder in a fireman's lift and carried him into the Great Hall.

Neville leaned against the door frame for a moment and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He looked like an old man.

"Neville."

The boy whipped around at his head around, startled.

"Blimey, Harry, you nearly gave me heart failure!"

Harry had pulled off the cloak: The idea had come to him out of nowhere, born out of a desire to make absolutely sure.

"Where are you going, alone?" Neville asked suspiciously.

"It's all part of the plan," said Harry. "There's something I've got to do. Listen—Neville—"

"Harry!" Neville looked suddenly scared. "Harry, you're not thinking of handing yourself over?"

"No," Harry lied easily. "'Course not… this is something else. But I might be out of sight for a while. You know Voldemort's snake, Neville? He's got a huge snake… Calls it Nagini…"

"I've heard, yeah… What about it?"

"It's got to be killed. Ron and Hermione know that, but just in case they—"

The awfulness of that possibility smothered him for a moment, made it impossible to keep talking. But he pulled himself together again: This was crucial, he must be like Dumbledore, keep a cool head, make sure there were backups, others to carry on. Dumbledore had died knowing that three people still knew about the Horcruxes; now Neville would take Harry's place: There would still be three in the secret.

"Just in case they're—busy—and you get the chance—"

"Kill the snake?"

"Kill the snake," Harry repeated.

"All right, Harry. You're okay, are you?"

"I'm fine. Thanks, Neville."

But Neville seized his wrist as Harry made to move on.

"We're all going to keep fighting, Harry. You know that?"

"Yeah, I —"

The suffocating feeling extinguished the end of the sentence; he could not go on. Neville did not seem to find it strange. He patted Harry on the shoulder, released him, and walked away to look for more bodies.

Eyes filling with tears, he pulled the Cloak over him again and set out once more. He passed through the familiar front doors of Hogwarts one last time, hurrying quickly past Ginny as she attended to an injured girl.

He was grateful it was not Hermione. Surely then all would be lost.

He kept walking until he reached the edge of the forest, a sudden thought slicing through the chill of the dementors and stopping him from moving any further ahead.

Voldemort had the Elder Wand, and he had the Cloak.

What of the Stone?

The Snitch. His nerveless fingers fumbled for a moment with the pouch at his neck and he pulled it out.

_I open at the close_.

It was all so _obvious_, in hindsight. Everything in his life had been leading up to this one moment.

His last moment.

He pressed the golden metal to his lips and whispered, "I am about to die."

The metal shell broke open. He lowered his shaking hand, raised Draco's wand beneath the Cloak, and murmured, "_Lumos_."

The black stone with its jagged crack running down the center sat in the two halves of the Snitch. The Resurrection Stone had cracked down the vertical line representing the Elder Wand. The triangle and circle representing the Cloak and the stone were still discernible.

And again Harry understood without having to think. It did not matter about bringing them back, for he was about to join them. He was not really fetching them: They were fetching him.

He closed his eyes and turned the stone over in his hand three times.

When he open them once more, they stood before him, all five of them, smiling. Neither flesh nor spirit, but something in between; something fleeting made to carry on existing, against its very nature.

Before him stood his father. It was like looking in a mirror. Like looking in a mirror _again_, he thought; his father looked exactly as he had when he'd seen them all those years ago, when he's stumbled upon the Mirror of Erised on Christmas night… maybe a little younger, actually, but that was because in the Mirror he had seen his parents as they would appear had they lived an extra eleven years.

He wondered then what he might see in the Mirror were he to look in it right now, and the answer came to him so forcefully he marveled that he'd even had to ask the question.

He would see her, of course. Both of them, together. Older, with their arms around each other, their children in the background rolling their eyes at them as they leaned in for a kiss. He would see the life he had wanted for them, were he to have lived past this night. It was the only thing he truly desired, and he had desired it from the moment he'd kissed her for the first time, even before he'd realized she felt the same way.

Sirius gave him a roguish grin, and seeing his godfather again affected Harry in a way that even meeting his father for only the second time ever did not. Both he and Lupin looked younger than he'd remembered ever seeing them; both looked completely at ease and glad to see him. Seeing Lupin again caused his eyes to begin stinging; it had been only minutes ago that he'd seen the Marauder's corpse in the Great Hall.

Lily's smile was widest of all. She pushed her long hair back as she drew close to him, and her green eyes, so like his, searched his face hungrily, as though she would never be able to look at him enough.

"You've been so brave."

He could not speak. His eyes feasted on her, and he thought that he would like to stand and look at her forever, and that would be enough.

At the edge of his vision lay the fifth visitor, his feet shuffling the dirt shyly. Harry broke his gaze from his mother and stared at him, astounded.

It was Peter Pettigrew, and he was looking at him with undisguised admiration and delight.

"You are nearly there," said James. "Very close. We are… so proud of you."

"Does it hurt?"

The childish question had fallen from Harry's lips before he could stop it.

"Dying? Not at all," said Sirius. "Quicker and easier than falling asleep."

"And he will want it to be quick. He wants it over," said Lupin.

"He isn't like you," Peter told him with a smile. "He is still afraid."

"What—" Harry began, staring at the shade of the man responsible for his parents' deaths, unable to understand.

"What's Wormtail doing here?" Sirius asked dryly. "I suppose we've got _you_ to blame for that one, kid," he said with a roll of his eyes, but his tone was light, teasing.

"He did the right thing, in the end," James said. "He faced it like a man. That's what counts."

"I didn't want you to die," Harry said. These words came without his volition. "Any of you. I'm sorry—"

He addressed Lupin more than any of them, beseeching him.

"— right after you'd had your son… Remus, I'm sorry—"

"I am sorry too," said Lupin. "Sorry I will never know him… but he will know why I died and I hope he will understand. I was trying to make a world in which he could live a happier life."

"You _will_ know him, Remus, someday. And he still has you to look after him, Harry," said Pettigrew. "You'll be _loads_ better at godfathering than _this_ lump," he said, jerking his thumb at Sirius. His hands were flesh, or at least as close to it as a shade could come—there was no silver, no missing fingers. He was whole again.

"And _whose_ fault was it that I spent all those years in Azkaban?" retorted Sirius.

Pettigrew had the decency to blush. Lupin just shook his head, a wry smile gracing his features.

All had been forgiven. The thought cheered Harry immensely; if someone such as Pettigrew could be forgiven for his sins, surely he would be, too. Perhaps, wherever, whatever came after, he would be absolved of his mistakes, reunited with his loved ones, as the Marauders had been.

Perhaps he would see her again, one day.

A chilly breeze that seemed to emanate from the heart of the forest lifted the hair at Harry's brow. He knew that they would not tell him to go, that it would have to be his decision.

"You'll stay with me?"

"Until the very end," said James.

"The Marauders ride again," said Peter, his smile beatific.

"They won't be able to see you?" asked Harry.

"We are part of you," said Sirius. "Invisible to anyone else."

Harry looked at his mother.

"Stay close to me," he said quietly.

They set off. He led the way, and they trailed after him in silence. They were there, though, and that was what mattered. They lent him their strength, gave him their silent support, their well wishes, and it spurred him on. Gave him what he needed to see it through.

He was grateful to Dumbledore in that instant. Whatever else the man had robbed him of, he had bequeathed the Stone to him. He had not made him go to his death alone.

Ahead there were two Death Eaters, out looking for him. They would never find him; he wore the Cloak of Invisibility, the third Deathly Hallow, and the dead were his only companions. He trailed after them, though, following them as they led him deeper and deeper through the wood, towards the heart of the forest. Towards the heart of it all.

He glanced sideways, and his mother smiled at him, and his father nodded encouragement.

Flickering light came from up ahead, and he recognized the clearing Voldemort had gathered his forces in. It had been Aragog's, the colony in which his children had tried to devour him and Ron in their second year.

Now an even fouler monster had taken up residence.

"No sign of him, my Lord," said Dolohov, one of the two Harry had been following.

Voldemort's expression did not change. The red eyes seemed to burn in the firelight. Slowly he drew the Elder Wand between his long fingers.

"My Lord—"

Bellatrix had spoken: She sat closest to Voldemort, disheveled, her face a little bloody but otherwise unharmed.

Voldemort raised his hand to silence her, and she did not speak another word, but eyed him in worshipful fascination.

"I thought he would come," said Voldemort in his high, clear voice, his eyes on the leaping flames. "I expected him to come."

Nobody spoke. They seemed as scared as Harry, whose heart was now throwing itself against his ribs as though determined to escape the body he was about to cast aside. His hands were sweating as he pulled off the Invisibility Cloak and stuffed it beneath his robes, with his wand. He did not want to be tempted to fight.

He gave his companions one last look, one last smile.

"I know you will believe this the most coming from me," Pettigrew told him softly. "You really do have nothing to fear."

He nodded his thanks, and turned his eyes back to the fire.

"I was, it seems… mistaken," said Voldemort.

"You weren't."

Harry said it as loudly as he could, with all the force he could muster: He did not want to sound afraid. The Resurrection Stone slipped from between his numb fingers, and out of the corner of his eyes he saw his parents, Sirius, Lupin and Pettigrew vanish as he stepped forward into the firelight. At that moment he felt that nobody mattered but Voldemort. It was just the two of them.

"Harry Potter," said Voldemort very softly. His voice might have been part of the spitting fire. "The Boy Who Lived."

_Goodbye, Hermione_. _I love you. Always, and forever._

He only wished he'd gotten the chance to say the words to her one last time.

There was a flash of green light, and then silence and the void.


	18. Chapter XV

**Chapter XV**

**Moksha**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. If I did, I would probably put him to use doing my housework for me and some stuff around the yard. It can come in real handy, owning someone who can transfigure grass clippings into cheesecake at your slightest whim.

**Author's Note:** Moksha (mohk-sha), n., from the Sanskrit _mokṣa_, meaning 'release, liberation'; 1. Spiritual salvation; bliss. 2. Freedom from the temporal, mundane mortal world of ordinary experience. **3. Nirvana; release from the endlessly repeating cycle of life, death and rebirth.**

This is it. The final chapter of **Time is the Fire**. We're not _quite_ done yet, though—the epilogue'll be posted in a day or two. After that, I suppose this story'll fade into quiet obscurity… though if you've been enjoying it, you can always add it to your Favorites list and help others find it. I've found _tons_ of fantastic fics just by going through my reviewer's Favorites Lists, so don't think that it wouldn't help.

Is it wrong of me to take such sick, perverse pleasure in hearing from my reviewers that I've made them cry? 'Cause I do, Merlin help me, I really do…

Also, I've already started working out the plot of my next fic. The bad news? It's not a Harry/Hermione piece (Sorry!). The good news? It's a Severus/Lily piece, and I'm genuinely excited about the concept—it may have been just a _tad_ obvious in the last chapter that I'm also a SS/LE shipper (for God's sake, the man used his dying breath to ask to stare into her eyes one last time… how could I NOT be a fan?). To the naysayers—I'm not expecting my writing style to change significantly, so you'll find more of the same goodness you've come to expect from **Time is the Fire**. If Sev/Lily isn't your cup of tea, no hard feelings, but if you're a fan of _this_ story I'm hopeful you'll like my next one too.

And all that aside, I am a Harmony shipper all the way through, and I _do_ of course hope to write more Harry/Hermione fics later on… I've just yet to be struck with a bolt of inspiration out of the blue. I've got high standards, and wouldn't post anything I wouldn't be willing to read, so you better believe that when I come up with my next idea, it'll be a good one.

Alright, enough of that. Let us step out into the night and pursue one last time that flighty temptress, adventure…

**Soundtrack Note: **The Face of Voldemort, from the Sorcerer's Stone soundtrack.

* * *

"Love vanquishes time. To lovers, a moment can be eternity, eternity can be the tick of a clock. Across the barriers of time and the ultimate destiny, love persists, for the home of the beloved, absent or present, is always in the mind and heart. Absence does not diminish love."

-Mary Parrish

She ran, heart pounding in her chest.

_Dumbledore's office_.

That's where he'd be. That's where he'd have to go, if he wanted to witness Snape's memories. He _had_ to be there, _had_ to, or she'd never find him in time.

He wasn't there, though. _He_ _wasn't there_, and she wasn't going to be able to catch him. He'd already struck out for the forest, and she prayed to whatever god would listen that he'd somehow get delayed so that she'd stumble upon him on the way there and knock some sense into the thick, stubborn skull of his.

"Homenum Revelio!" she spat as she rounded another corner, running down the hallway at full speed. The spell rushed down the corridor, seeking ahead of her, but she saw nothing.

Harry wasn't here. She kept running, breath coming in short, sharp stabs. She was running out of _time_.

Less than fifteen minutes, now, until Voldemort's hour ran out. Less than fifteen minutes for Harry to sacrifice himself to save them all.

As if a life without him would be worth living.

She thought of the first time she'd ever met Harry as she ran down the Grand Staircase. Eleven years old, almost twelve, and on board the Hogwarts Express for the first time. She'd already performed a few simple charms at home, still entirely ignorant of what being a Muggleborn meant to the wider wizarding world. Bright and eager, burning with excitement and anticipation, thrilled to have discovered she was special, that there was a whole secret world out there that she would get to be a part of.

She'd babbled on nervously from the moment she first saw him. He was _famous_, after all. Even coming from a Muggle family, she'd known his name; he'd been in _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ and_ Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_, and all the other kids on the train whispered his name like he was some kind of _hero_…

He was, of course. He was quite simply the most heroic man she'd ever met. He'd thrown himself at a _mountain troll_ to save her, for Merlin's sake. He was a hero, all the way through.

And now he was going to die because of it.

"Neville!" she screamed as she ran into the boy at the base of the stairs. "Have you seen Harry?"

"Yeah, just a minute ago, what—"

"_Where did he go?_"

Neville was looking at her with wide eyes, a look of horrible realization crossing his features. "I don't—I'm not sure, he disappeared beneath that cloak of his…"

"What's going on?" called Ron, stepping out of the Great Hall. "Where's Harry?" he asked, as he caught sight of the look on Hermione's face.

"The snake…" Neville said, his voice barely a whisper. "He told me, that if I got the chance, I needed to kill the snake… what was he _talking_ about?"

She was already running for the entrance, oblivious to the others following after her; she had to get to the forest, get to Harry, _stop _him, before it was too late…

"Hermione!" "Hermione, wait!" "Where is she going?"

She ignored them all as she charged across the grounds. No, no, it wasn't too late… she still had time… she could still make him see sense…

"Harry Potter is dead."

She froze.

The voice seemed to come from everywhere, and nowhere, all at the same time, and it gave her chills down her spine. It was Voldemort's voice, magically amplified, and it could be heard across the entire grounds.

"He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him. We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone.

"The battle is won. You have lost half of your fighters. My Death Eaters outnumber you, and the Boy Who Lived is finished. There must be no more war. Anyone who continues to resist, man, woman, or child, will be slaughtered, as will every member of their family. Come out of the castle now, kneel before me, and you shall be spared. Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters will live and be forgiven, and you will join me in the new world we shall build together."

Her hands were trembling, and she became dimly aware of the others around her, Ron, and Neville, Ginny and Luna… Dean and Seamus, Professors McGonagall and Flitwick… and they were all staring at each other's faces, the stunned disbelief they saw in each other echoed in their own…

The air was growing colder, unnaturally cold, and she knew that there were still dementors out there, drawing closer, could _feel_ them, feel the hope that she still clung to desperately beginning to slip away…

No. He wasn't dead. She didn't believe that for a second. Killed as he ran away? Even Voldemort couldn't think anyone would believe that one. No, it was a trick, just a trick, she could still stop him in time…

"Miss Granger, no!"

Never before had Hermione blown off Minerva McGonagall, but now was _not_ the time to do as your teachers told you. She had to _save _him…

"Hermione!" The voice was Ron's, and it snapped at her with such ferocity that she slowed, just for a second, and in that second a powerful hand seized her by the shoulder and spun her around.

Ron stood over her, hand on her shoulder, keeping her from running further, and he was staring in the direction of the forest, the most terrible look in his eyes. That jarred her, for not even when Fred had died had he looked so… haunted.

Slowly she turned her head to follow his gaze.

Black robed figures were approaching, clad in gruesome silver masks. The Death Eaters paraded forward, triumphant, and leading the procession was Voldemort himself. They marched towards the castle, and as they drew closer to the growing crowd of the castle's defenders, they spread out, forming a line, at the center of which stood an enormous figure, carrying something in his arms…

"No…" she whispered. The dementors' chill was at its peak now, and she could scarcely move, for all the despair she felt run through her. Soon she would find herself back in Malfoy Manor, seeing him die again…

"NO!" The scream was the more terrible because no one had never expected or dreamed that Professor McGonagall could make such a sound.

A mad sort of cackling came from across the divide, and the sound sent shivers down Hermione's spine. Bellatrix Lestrange…

But she couldn't think about that right now. She had to _know_…

The enormous man was Hagrid, and he was sobbing. _Sobbing_, and holding a limp, lifeless figure in his arms... a boy, no, a man, with dark messy hair and the very same glasses she'd cast _Reparo _on in the Hogwarts Express…

"No!" cried Ron, disbelief and horrible, horrible loss coloring his voice.

It couldn't be, it couldn't _be_… It was a terrible illusion, caused by the dementors, she thought wildly, showing her the thing that would fill her with the most dread…

"No!"

It wasn't him, it wasn't _him_… Voldemort had Transfigured someone to _look _like him, that had to be the answer…

"Harry! HARRY!"

The figure did not move, and she could see his face clearly now. It was Harry.

Her scream was louder than any she'd let loose at Malfoy Manor.

Losing him was far worse than any _Crucio_. It was worse than torture.

It meant the death of her soul.

Her cry acted as a trigger; as one the crowd took up the cause, roaring and screaming and yelling abuse at the Death Eaters, until—

"SILENCE!" cried Voldemort, and there was a bang and a flash of bright light, and silence was forced upon them all. "It is over! Set him down, Hagrid, at my feet, where he belongs!"

Ron pinned her arms behind her as she screamed noiselessly under Voldemort's _Silencio_, keeping her from vengefully casting the Killing Curse as Harry's body was gently lowered to the ground; the redhead was trying to protect her, keep her from getting herself killed, she knew, but none of that _mattered_ anymore…

Harry was dead.

Nothing mattered anymore.

"You see?" said Voldemort, striding back and forth. "Harry Potter is dead! Do you understand now, deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him!"

"He beat you!" yelled Ron, and the charm broke, and the defenders of Hogwarts were shouting and screaming again until a second, more powerful bang extinguished their voices once more.

"He was killed while trying to sneak out of the castle grounds," said Voldemort, and there was relish in his voice for the lie, "killed while trying to save himself—"

But he broke off midstream. Neville had leapt from the crowd, flinging hexes; there was a shout, a bang and another flash of light, and Neville was disarmed by the Dark Lord himself, his wand tossed aside.

"And who is this?" asked Voldemort in his soft snake's hiss. "Who has volunteered to demonstrate what happens to those who continue to fight when the battle is lost?"

Bellatrix gave a delighted laugh.

"It is Neville Longbottom, my Lord! The boy who has been giving the Carrows so much trouble! The son of the Aurors, remember?"

"Ah, yes, I remember," said Voldemort, looking down at Neville, who was struggling back to his feet, unarmed and unprotected, standing in the no-man's-land between the survivors and the Death Eaters. "But you are a pureblood, aren't you, my brave boy?" Voldemort asked Neville, who stood facing him, his empty hands curled in fists.

"So what if I am?" said Neville loudly.

"You show spirit and bravery, and you come of noble stock. You will make a very valuable Death Eater. We need your kind, Neville Longbottom."

"I'll join you when hell freezes over," said Neville. "Dumbledore's Army!" he shouted, and there was an answering cheer from the crowd, whom Voldemort's Silencing Charms seemed unable to hold.

"Very well," said Voldemort, and hearing his voice filled her with a seething, impossible rage. This was the monster who had murdered the man she had loved. "If that is your choice, Longbottom, we revert to the original plan. On your head," he said quietly, "be it."

Voldemort waved his wand. Seconds later, out of one of the castle's shattered windows, something that looked like a misshapen bird flew through the half light and landed in Voldemort's hand. He shook the mildewed object by its pointed end and it dangled, empty and ragged: the Sorting Hat.

"There will be no more Sorting at Hogwarts School," said Voldemort. "There will be no more Houses. The emblem, shield, and colors of my noble ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, will suffice for everyone. Won't they, Neville Longbottom?"

He pointed his wand at Neville, who grew rigid and still, then forced the hat onto Neville's head, so that it slipped down below his eyes. There were movements from the watching crowd in front of the castle, and as one, the Death Eaters raised their wands, holding the fighters of Hogwarts at bay.

"Neville here is now going to demonstrate what happens to anyone foolish enough to continue to oppose me," said Voldemort, and with a flick of his wand, he caused the Sorting Hat to burst into flames.

Screams split the dawn, and Neville was aflame, rooted to the spot, unable to move, and Ron was no longer holding her back, for he was snarling and thrusting out with his own wand, and she raised hers too, desperate to prevent any more death…

It happened faster than she could have believed.

Grawp raged out of the forest, flinging himself at the nearest giant with a massive bellow to rival any dragon's roar. The centaurs attacked, their first volley unleashing fresh death in the midst of Voldemort's army; and in one swift, fluid motion, Neville broke free of the Body-Bind Curse upon him, the flaming hat fell off him and he drew from its depths something silver, with a glittering, rubied handle—

The slash of the silver blade could not be heard over the roar of the oncoming crowd or the sounds of the clashing giants or of the stampeding centaurs, and yet it seemed to draw every eye. With a single stroke Neville sliced off the great snake's head, which spun high into the air, gleaming in the light flooding from the entrance hall, and Voldemort's mouth was open in a scream of fury that nobody could hear, and the snake's body thudded to the ground at his feet—

Hexes and curses rocketed back and forth, counterjinxes blazing and crackling in the nighttime air; the dread pull of the dementors filling her ears with screams and cries of pain she vaguely understood were coming from within her, rather than the battle around her…

The centaurs charged, wounded wizards and witches fell and screamed, Ron unleashing curse after curse, striking at the oncoming Death Eaters with savage ferocity… and the tide of the battle surged against them, pushing them all back towards the castle, and terribly, dreadfully certain knowledge filled her, gave her one last mission, one last purpose in the life…

The snake was dead.

Voldemort's last Horcrux had been destroyed. The Dark Lord was mortal once more.

He was mortal once, and she would kill him. Kill him, the way he'd killed her love.

That was the thing about the Unforgivable Curses. You have to really _mean_ them… She'd never thought herself capable of casting such a spell, it went against everything she stood for, everything she believed… But there were no doubts left within her anymore, _nothing_ left within her anymore. Everything had been torn out of her, ripped from her, killed along with Harry.

She would kill him. Lord Voldemort would fall by her hand.

She gave no thought to what she would do afterwards; that would come later, if at all. She did not _want_ to think about that, think about the grief she would endure once the lust for revenge had been sated… She did not want to picture Harry's corpse, cradled in her arms, did not want to have to endure that heartache before she had to…

A Death Eater lunged forward, jabbing his wand in Ron's direction, and casually she sliced off the man's hand with a Severing Charm. He howled in pain, but it was drowned out in the screams and explosive noise of the battle. She ignored it all, fighting the press of bodies, paying scarcely any attention as she found herself in the Great Hall, where the duels themselves properly began…

She remembered what Ron had told her, first year, and her face was set in a grim line. She would show the Dark Lord the enormity of his mistake. He had taken from her the only thing she'd _needed_, and she would make him pay the price before he died. He would learn. He would soon know to fear her.

He would fear her, because she was _scary_.

Brilliant, but scary.

Voldemort was already on the other side of the hall, wielding the foulest Dark Magic, no one able to stand against him. McGonagall tried, as did Slughorn, and Kingsley, but they were clearly out of their league. Hermione did not care. Did not care that witches and wizards ten times her skill could not stand against him, did not care that he clutched the Elder Wand between his bony fingers…

Not even the Elder Wand would stand against her wrath.

She surged past Ginny, who herself had just narrowly evaded a fatal jet of emerald destruction. Her eyes were locked on Voldemort, and raising her wand she screamed, the tears running down her face, the grief and fury and numbness crackling up and down her skin like little bolts of electricity. She took one last step forward, gathering her magic, staring straight at her foe, her eyes _ablaze._

A cry came from behind her, triumphant and diabolical, the screeching laugh of Bellatrix Lestrange, and then she was struck from behind, a gust of wind and bright green light and she tumbled straight forward…

Her last thought before the darkness claimed her was the mournful realization that she would never even have the chance to look into Harry's eyes when she died.

* * *

"_Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?_"

He lived.

He'd stood before Voldemort, stared him in the eye, felt the silent tension of the moment stretch on for a seeming eternity, the Dark Lord's wand pointed straight at him.

And when the curse had been cast, and he had fallen…

A miracle had happened.

He'd found himself in King's Cross Station, staring into the twinkling blue eyes of the man who'd planned his death.

_And he'd forgiven him_.

It was impossible to be angry with Dumbledore after seeing him like this; the man had seemed to radiate happiness like light, like fire: Harry had never seen the man so utterly, so palpably content.

After all his resentment towards the man, how odd it had been to sit there, beneath the high, vaulted ceiling, and defend Dumbledore from himself, when he had told him that he could not possibly despise him any more than he already despised himself.

Dumbledore explained to him the story of his sister's death, of his youthful mistakes, of his own death at the hands of Snape, and ultimately of his hopes for Harry's own sacrifice. He recalled the night Voldemort had returned, and the flash of something like triumph he had seen in the Headmaster's eyes when he had told him that the Dark Lord had used his blood in the resurrection ritual.

Finally, he understood. The connection between the two went both ways. While the Dark Lord's unintended Horcrux existed in him, Voldemort could not die; but while his own blood flowed through the Dark Lord's veins, neither could he.

And so Dumbledore presented him with a choice: he could move on, board a train and pass on into the great beyond, or he could return to the world of the living. Return to _her_.

Rise again.

They'd made Hagrid carry him. It was the hardest thing he had ever done, to not give his friend any reassurances, any signs that he still lived, to endure the half-giants sobs and feel his hot tears rain down upon him.

Their cries were more awful than anything he would ever have believed. McGonagall, Ron, Ginny…

And then he heard _her _scream, her voice like nothing he had never before heard emitted from another human being. Despair and disbelief, loss and agony and the death of hope. He could not bear to let it continue, needed to cry out to her, to reassure her he still lived, but he forced himself to lie still, silently awaiting the right moment. Soon it would be all over.

He had felt magnificent awe at the onslaught of the Centaurs, at Grawp's fearless charge into the fray. And he had never been more proud of another Gryffindor in his life when Neville summoned Godric's sword and severed the head of Nagini, destroying the last Horcrux.

He made his move.

Chaos reigned. Death Eaters were everywhere, and from beneath the cloak he cast jinx after jinx wherever he saw them, the defenders of the castle fighting with such terrible urgency that whatever little aid he could give was washed out in the sheer onslaught of their spells. He was buffeted into the Great Hall by the press of bodies, humbled by Kreacher's rallying cry, the castle House Elves being urged onward in his name. Yaxley was slammed to the floor by George and Lee Jordan, Dolohov fell with a scream at Flitwick's hands, Walden Macnair was thrown across the room by Hagrid and slid unconscious to the ground. Ron and Neville brought down Fenrir Greyback, Aberforth Dumbledore Stunned Rookwood, Arthur and Percy Weasley floored Thicknesse, and Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy ran through the crowd, not even attempting to fight, screaming for their son.

He had witnessed Voldemort dueling McGonagall, Slughorn and Kingsley all at once, none of them able to match him.

And just when he was about to make his way into the center of it all, to duel the Dark Lord and finish it all for good, he saw _her_, cutting past Ginny, Luna and Mrs. Weasley.

Tears streaked down her red face, shaken and contorted by so many different raging emotions that it was a wonder it hadn't cracked: bereavement, anguish, raw, impossible fury…

He had seen no fear there, and to his horror she charged straight for the Dark Lord.

She screamed, and raised her wand, and was struck in the back by a jet of green light by Bellatrix Lestrange.

She fell. She died.

His howl was of such fierce grief that it overpowered the sounds of everything else, and the battle froze, as everyone tried to identify its source.

He cast no spell, focused on nothing in particular except the blinding red haze of vengeance he craved; he merely felt an overpowering desire to see the bitch die, and the Elder Wand was torn out of his Voldemort's grasp and flung into his own.

He thrust it out at Bellatrix, but to his shock she was nowhere to be seen. He craned his neck over the crowd, peered through the shocked figures of the petrified battle, staring at him in awe, his cloak fallen to the floor, forgotten. He did not understand…

Bellatrix Lestrange lay dead, her face fixed in a victorious sneer. Her corpse was immaculate, no more battered or bloodied than he had seen her appear when she'd still drawn breath in the Forbidden Forest.

She'd been struck with the Killing Curse, then.

His vengeance denied him, he whirled around to face Voldemort, who was staring at him in shock and horror. There was no witty banter, no final dialogue between foes. He did not gloat, or insult the villain. A quick stab with the Hallow and a flash of green and it was all over. The aftermath was filled with stunned silence and incredulous looks.

He had won.

He had won, but he had been denied his prize. He had won, but he had lost her.

They were staring at him, all familiar faces in the crowd, but he no longer gave a damn about any of them… didn't care about George, or Ginny, or Luna, or Hagrid, felt nothing when he saw any of them… he'd never feel anything ever again…

"H-Harry?"

Her voice rang out in the stillness like a bell.

Slowly, shakily, Hermione stood up, staring at him with the most bewildered expression.

He stared back, mouth agape. Her _eyes_… Merlin, those _eyes_… they bewitched him, held him in her thrall, bore into him with the most fiery intensity he had ever seen… Alien, unreadable, frightening, forceful.

He could live off of the intensity in those eyes, knew that that intensity would be all either of them would ever need again, because he knew that she must be seeing the same thing in him at that very moment.

And then she was in his arms, and they were wrapped around each other, his lips upon hers, and she dipped beneath him as he leaned into the kiss, and though he still did not understand how any of this is possible it certainly seemed good enough for the crowd, for the tumult broke around them as the screams and the cheers and the roars of the watchers rent the air.

The kiss ended, in time, though the roar of the victors did not; and suddenly they were swarmed, a thousand arms all reaching for them to pat them on the back or squeeze their arms or tussle their hair, a thousand jubilant calls and grateful words of thanks spilling out of their mouths…

He held her hand in his, squeezed it tight, afraid to let go, certain he would never ever be able to do such a thing again. She was solid in his grasp, solid and _real_. She was real, and she was alive.

She was alive, even though she'd been struck by the Killing Curse.

It came to him instantly.

"_If there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He didn't realize that love as powerful as your mother's for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign… to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever. It is in your very skin. Quirrell, full of hatred, greed, and ambition, sharing his soul with Voldemort, could not touch you for this reason. It was agony to touch a person marked by something so good._"

She had been marked. She had been protected. She had been struck with the Killing Curse, and it had rebounded upon her murderer, leaving Bellatrix Lestrange dead and unmourned on the floor of the Great Hall.

But _how_?

He realized that he really didn't care. Puzzling out the answer could wait for later. Right now, he just wanted to breathe in her presence.

Gradually the tide ended, the first golden rays of the dawn piercing the shattered glass windows of the Hall, and the place blazed with life and light, their cries of glee and victory still ringing in his ears, the roar of their celebration making the place come alive again.

And she stood at his side, her tearful smile filling him with a warmth like a thousand bottles of Felix Felicis…

They all demanded some of his attention, wanted him there, to direct them, or to give a speech of some kind, or simply to grace them with his presence, remain there as a symbol of leadership and salvation, or some other such rot.

He had other plans.

Squeezing Hermione's hand tightly in his own, he pulled her along with him and strolled out towards the doors. Hand in hand they walked to the Grand Staircase, the crowd trailing out of the Hall after them, but not daring to follow any further. Looking back over his shoulder as they began to climb the first steps, he saw Ginny looking up at them, tears in her eyes, a wounded look on her face; a pang went through him, and he knew he would talk to her, tomorrow, sit her down and try to explain… but now was not the time.

Ron stood next to his sister, his expression betraying some of his envy but his relief that it was all over and his adoration for his friends overwhelming it. Smiles gracing both their faces, Harry and Hermione both inclined their heads at him in invitation, and he hurried after them as they began the climb. He accepted Harry's outstretched fingers, and holding hands the three set off for the Headmaster's office, leaving everything else behind.

Somewhere in the distance they could hear Peeves zooming through the corridors singing a victory song of his own composition:

_We did it, we bashed them, wee Potter's the one,_

_And Voldy's gone moldy, so now let's have fun!_

"Really gives a feeling for the scope and tragedy of the thing, doesn't it?" said Ron, pushing open a door to let Harry and Hermione through.

In silence the three passed through the muted hallways, the portraits on the walls staring at them, whispering amongst themselves and running ahead through the frames to keep up with them.

Since he had last seen it, the gargoyle guarding the entrance to the headmaster's study had been knocked aside; it stood lopsided, looking a little punch-drunk, and Harry wondered whether it would be able to distinguish passwords anymore.

"Can we go up?" he asked the gargoyle.

"Feel free," groaned the statue.

They clambered over him and onto the spiral stone staircase that moved slowly upward like an escalator. Harry pushed open the door at the top.

He had one, brief glimpse of the stone Pensieve on the desk where he had left it, and then an earsplitting noise made him cry out, thinking of curses and returning Death Eaters and the rebirth of Voldemort—

But it was applause. All around the walls, the headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts were giving him a standing ovation; they waved their hats and in some cases their wigs, they reached through their frames to grip each other's hands; they danced up and down on the chairs in which they had been painted; Dilys Derwent sobbed unashamedly; Dexter Fortescue was waving his ear-trumpet; and Phineas Nigellus called, in his high, reedy voice, "And let it be noted that Slytherin House played its part! Let our contribution not be forgotten!"

But Harry had eyes only for the man who stood in the largest portrait directly behind the headmaster's chair. Tears were sliding down from behind the half-moon spectacles into the long silver beard, and the pride and the gratitude emanating from him filled Harry with the same balm as phoenix song.

His best friend on his left, the woman he loved on his right, looking up with joy at the kind old man he'd come to think of as a part of his own family…

It was all over. It was finished, and he was glad.

No. Not finished.

Just beginning.

He had the rest of his life to look forward to, and he knew exactly with whom he would be spending it.


	19. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

**Disclaimer:** All I own are the fond memories writing this fic has produced for me, strong enough to power any Patronus.

**Author's Note:** My heartfelt thanks to all of my reviewers, especially my regulars. Harmony101, almac1991, Parvulus of Ink, pawsrule, showmethestars, happylady, loveofsapphires, forbiddenharmony7, Howlermonkey77, cajuncoffee, InMyJazzShoes, HarmonyLover… most of you guys have been with me pretty much every step of the way, and I'm immensely grateful for your kind words and support. I've genuinely looked forward to each and every one of your reviews every time I posted a new chapter, and I'm as sad to see **Time as the Fire** end as many of you have said you are. Thank you all.

I have to tell you, though, I always got my biggest kicks out of your demands (sometimes threats?) for Harry and Hermione to have a happy ending. As if I'd ever had anything else in mind. Of course, none of you could have known that, especially since I tried my damnedest to make them earn their blissful retirement. But the power of love has been a central theme of the Harry Potter books since the very beginning, and it could hardly be any different for** Time is the Fire**. If you ever had any doubts, the last chapter's epigraph pretty much sums up the theme of this entire story.

Speaking of epigraphs, I've been looking forward to using _this_ update's epigraph since before I even started writing; I didn't even have a clear idea for this story in mind when I decided that I wanted the epilogue to begin with this quote. And as it turns out, it fits the tone beautifully. I love it when serendipity strikes so forcefully and repetitively.

**Soundtrack Note:** Reunion of Friends from the Chamber of Secrets soundtrack, and The Room of Requirement from the Order of the Phoenix soundtrack. And if you want "end credits" music to listen to afterwards, you simply _have_ to go with Mischief Managed! from the Prisoner of Azkaban, it's the best Harry Potter suite out there…

* * *

"To everything there is a season, and  
a time to every purpose under heaven:

A time to be born, and a time to die;  
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

A time to kill, and a time to heal;  
a time to break down, and a time to build up;

A time to weep, and a time to laugh;  
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;  
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

A time to get, and a time to lose;  
a time to keep, and a time to cast away;

A time to rend, and a time to sow;  
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

**A time to** **love**, **and a time to hate;  
a time of war;** **and a time of peace**."

-Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

The sun was rising now, coming up over the hills and the treetops of the Forbidden Forest, shining down its light and warmth upon it all, filling the scene with a new sense of hope. Debris still littered the grounds; broken chunks of the battlements lay embedded in the grass, and craters marked where particularly explosive spellfire had impacted. The bodies had been removed for burial, and though tangible sorrow still draped over the castle like the folds of Harry's invisibility cloak, the first rays of the morning light seemed to cut through it, driving it away, if only for a little while.

They walked alongside the shore of the lake, holding one another's hand, looking up at the breaking dawn and then at each other.

"It was you," she told him. "You saved me, when you died at Malfoy Manor."

"I still don't understand, though…"

"Think about it," she said, and she was a little surprised he hadn't put the pieces together for himself yet. "If I _had_ died… if Bellatrix _had_ been able to kill me… what would you have done?"

She could see it in his face that he knew exactly what he would have done. Where he would have gone. But he still looked as though he could scarcely believe it.

"I thought that the past couldn't be changed, though… _You_ taught me that, back in third year, remember?"

"Are you really that upset that I was wrong?"

But she said it with a smile, and he put his arm around her, pulling her closer to him and kissing her on the forehead. There was no lightning shaped scar there; Bellatrix's soul, while most assuredly dark and twisted, had never been shattered by the creation of multiple Horcruxes, and thus no fragment of her had come to rest within Hermione. Harry was still unique, in that respect, though with the piece of Voldemort that had resided in him at long last purged from him it appeared that his scar had ceased to have any special significance; it had not burnt him or ached from the moment he'd risen again in the Forbidden Forest.

It was the second day after the battle. After that first sunrise, after Harry had repaired his phoenix-feather wand and they'd left the Headmaster's office, he had told her and Ron everything—about Snape, about Dumbledore's plan, about what had happened in the Forbidden Forest… about King's Cross Station, and everything that had come after.

They'd kept him up for hours, simply asking him questions and alternately berating him and thanking him for making such a foolish sacrifice for their sakes. And then, exhausted and in need of a long-denied familiar comfort, the three had gone to sleep, back in the boys' old dorm in Gryffindor Tower, Hermione curled up beside Harry in his four-poster bed.

It had been the first good night's sleep that either of the two had had since the last time they'd shared a bed.

Eventually, they had had to go out and face the world again. They'd spent most of their time with the Weasleys, helping sort out the mess the aftermath of the battle had left for them, and silently taking part in the funeral arrangements. They'd gotten the chance to see Neville and Luna, too, and also to speak with Hagrid.

Hermione had never seen the half-giant cry quite as hard as he did when Harry told him apologetically that he'd been alive and awake the entire time he'd been holding him in his arms, and the groundskeeper swept them all into a rib-shattering hug, fat, dripping tears raining down on their heads.

Harry had also taken some time to speak to Ginny. Neither had deliberately announced their relationship, but after last night's impassioned kiss it was obvious both to Ginny and everyone else who it was that truly held Harry's heart. The girl was still hurt, but she was as strong as she'd ever been, and would get through it in time.

Hermione knew that Harry hadn't been looking forward to the conversation, but had been dreading Mrs. Weasley's reaction even more so; he'd been rather certain the woman had been looking forward to adding them both to the Weasley family tree. But all awkwardness was immediately dispelled later that evening when the matron had taken them both aside and informed them that they'd both already been members of her family for years. Had been, from the moment they'd taught Ron to knock out a mountain troll that Halloween they'd first all become friends, and that she was as proud of the man and woman they'd grown up to be as she was of any of her own children, ties of blood or marriage be damned.

"And don't tell the kids I said this," she'd whispered conspiratorially after pulling them into a crushing embrace that nearly rivaled Hagrid's, "but Arthur and I always thought you two had better chemistry with each other than either of you had with Ron and Ginny."

And Hermione had never blushed so furiously as she did when Professor McGonagall slipped in behind them to murmur, "Took you two long enough to end up together," before gliding across the hall to help Flitwick restore the Great Hall's glass windows.

And so now they walked alongside the side of the lake, enjoying the view and each other's company. There was no sign of the giant squid; most likely it was still busy digesting those unlucky Death Eaters who'd strayed too close to the shore during the battle.

It was peaceful out here, thought Hermione, and it still hadn't really sunk in that it would be a lasting peace. From pretty much the moment they'd come to Hogwarts, they'd always had some catastrophe just 'round the bend to deal with, whether it be giant monsters, dark wizards, or murderous Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers.

Or murderously incompetent, in the case of Gilderoy Lockhart, she thought with a grin.

But now… now she was finally beginning to realize that she and Harry would be able, at long last, to have what they'd always wanted: a normal life together.

In some ways, the prospect of that was even more daunting than facing down Voldemort in single combat. She knew how she felt about Harry. But their relationship—hell, even their initial friendship—had all been forged under pressure, a pressure no adolescent could have borne alone. Without the next disaster or sinister plot to keep them thrown together, would they be able to make it, or would they discover they simply weren't as meant for each other as they believed? Would Harry realize now how much better he deserved?

She didn't believe for a second that that would turn out to be the case. She knew Harry loved her; he'd proven that for her, ten times over. He'd died for her, _twice_, for Merlin's sake… sure, the second time he'd only _thought_ he'd been about to die, and the first time… well, they still couldn't fully wrap their heads around what had happened at Malfoy Manor…

But she knew in her heart that he loved her as deeply as she loved him. She knew it, and the thought filled her with a warmth and a glow more potent than the sun rising sluggishly over the lake.

"What are you thinking?" he asked her, smiling as if he already knew.

"About you," she told him with a smile of her own. "About how much I love you. About how I can't believe that our lives are finally going to be _quiet_ from now on…"

"Not _too_ quiet, I hope," he said, smirking as he leaned in to whisper into her ear, "I quite enjoyed all the noises you made last night…"

She blushed. They'd made love for the second time last night, and she didn't know if it was the fact that she'd already lost her virginity to him or the fact that all the anxiety and worry about the war had finally been lifted, but… it had been _good_.

It had been _really_ good.

"I might have enjoyed making them," she said in what she hoped was a noncommittal tone.

He laughed. "Oh, you _definitely_ enjoyed making them."

Damn.

"I love you," he told her softly, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close to him.

"And I love you too," she told him. "Always, and forever. No matter what happens."

"You really mean that, right?"

She was surprised by the uncertainty and the hesitation in the voice. A week ago, she would have smacked him upside the head for asking such a stupid question. Today, though…

She put her arms around his neck and stood up on her toes to give him a long, slow, tantalizing kiss.

"What do _you_ think?" she asked him with a smirk, and she was rewarded with that dazzling smile of his, that smile she'd never found anything else to compare to.

Merlin, she loved his smile.

"Alright, then, that's settled," he said, drawing his wand and flinging it towards the castle.

"What's settled?" she asked, but he just gave her another smile, this one with a mischievous edge to it, and turned his head to look back at the castle.

A few seconds later she saw something small and green flying through the air towards them. The summoned object dropped neatly into his outstretched hand, and she could see that it was a book.

"I borrowed this from you first year, and never really got the chance to return it…"

Peering over him so she could make out the title, she recognized it at once: _Quidditch Through the Ages_.

"I remember! Madam Pince was _so _furious with me when I never returned it, I had to avoid the library for a week!"

"You _would _be still upset about that… but don't blame me, Snape took it, remember? And when I finally got it back from him, I kinda just forgot to give it back to you…"

"_Right_," she told him crossly, "You _forgot_," but behind her glare her eyes were twinkling.

"Anyway, I thought that, hey, since I've got you out here, now's as good a time as any…"

"A little late, don't you think?" she asked dryly.

"Maybe, but you know what they say, there's no time like the present…"

And then he waved his wand over the book and it began shrinking, changing color, and he'd lowered himself to one knee…

In his fingers he held up a tiny, perfect diamond ring.

"Hermione Jean Granger, will—"

"Yes!"

"Can I at least finish the question? I've put a lot of thought into this, I'll have you know."

"Right, sorry, go ahead…"

"Hermione Jean Granger, will you be my wife?"

"I'll have to think about it."

"Hermione!"

And then she'd tackled him, and they were both on the grass cracking up, trading kiss after kiss, smiles wide and eyes staring down at her hand as he slid the ring onto her finger…

"I can get you a real one. Later, I mean. We can go to Diagon Alley and pick one out together…"

"This one's perfect," she told him firmly. "I'm never going to take it off."

"I should hope not," he replied, but whatever snarky comment he'd undoubtedly had ready after that would have to wait, for she'd pinned him to the ground and kissed him again, and he never _had_ been able to resist her kisses…

The sound of their laughter echoed out over the grounds, and the only ones around to hear were the owls sweeping over the lake, flying off into the distance, the sun rising overhead to cast everything in hues of molten gold…

* * *

The sound of his shoes striking the floor echoed wildly off the walls as he hurried down the corridor, but he was well beyond caring at this point. He was positively _brimming_ with excitement, and he grinned at the memory of Ron, unhappy to find out he'd been saddled with meetings all morning and giving him a sour look as he'd skipped out of the office early.

But it seemed of late that the only thing he'd been doing was paperwork and more paperwork. Little excursions like this one were the only way to ensure his sanity, and he'd been quite looking forward to this one since he'd first found out about it a couple of days ago.

He grinned at the two men waiting by the fireplace as he rounded the corner. "Flitney. Murkins," he greeted them with a nod.

"Mornin', boss," Warren Flitney nodded back. "Pulled a few strings to get out and about this morning, I see."

"You're an inspiration to us all, sir," commented Gordon Murkins.

"As you'd both do well to remember," Harry told his Auror, waggling his eyebrows. "It just so happens, though, that I'll be going with you on your little delivery run today."

"Oh _really_? So your string pulling involved replacing Bellick, then," said Flitney, his curiosity piqued. "Say Gordon, do you think the boss knows something we don't?"

"Certainly seems that way, Warren," Murkins replied dryly.

"Oh, put a sock in it you two. Let's get going, shall we?"

"You do know the address, right? No one's even told us where we're going, Bellick was the only one of us who even knew the location. Very hush hush, if you ask me."

"Just shout out 'Doge Manor' in the floo," said Harry, and taking a pinch of floo powder in hand, stepped into the flames and did just that.

Spinning about rapidly, Harry quickly vacated the fireplace on the other side to make room for Flitney and Murkins.

When the other two arrived, a polite cough sounded from behind them, and they were greeted with a curt nod by a tall, thin balding man. Were it not for the fact that sunlight was streaming in through the large full-size windows along the wall of the main room, Harry would have pegged him for a vampire, pale and gaunt as the man was.

"Welcome to Doge Manor, Mr. Potter," said the man, snidely. "I am Anwell Duke, the executor of Mr. Doge's estate. The Ministry's property is this way, if you will…"

Harry, Flitney and Murkins trailed after the man, eyes roaming the manor around them. Unlike some of the more pretentious homes of the richer wizarding families, Doge Manor had once been warm and cozy. Harry knew this firsthand, having attended many of Elphias' gatherings over the years, but now it was hard to tell: the tapestries and portraits had been removed from the walls, the furniture pushed to the walls and covered in sheets, the curtains drawn back from the windows allowing the sun to shine into the empty, deserted rooms.

They passed in silence up a wide curving staircase to the second floor, and Anwell Duke lead them down another distressingly unadorned hallway and into a large room that Harry had only been in once or twice; he recognized it as Elphias' study.

This room had not been touched; the bookshelves lining the walls were still packed to the brim with books, the comfy leather chairs still arranged in the center of the study, the large, stately desk still covered in whatever papers the old wizard had been examining before he'd died along with a bottle of what looked like Firewhiskey. An grated iron staircase led up to a catwalk circling the upper level of bookshelves, and a handful of large ladders on rollers were scattered about the room, providing access to the shelves just out of reach, in case one felt like browsing instead of just summoning a particular tome to one's hand.

But the Aurors' eyes were all drawn to a tall wooden crate in the corner of the room.

"This is it, I take it?" Flitney asked.

"Indeed," sniffed Duke.

"I don't suppose you'll be wanting to fill us in, boss…"

"Sorry, Murkins. The Ministry doesn't want this one getting out until we get it in place and the security charms in place. You'll find out in a month or two."

"Oooh, _mysterious_," said Flitney with a grin.

"All I can tell you is that Mr. Doge bequeathed it to the Ministry, and it'll be made available for public viewing later this year. You'll be able to brag to all your friends and loved ones about how you were the brave lads to risk your lives escorting it to its new home," Harry said dryly.

"Over a long and arduous journey, fighting tooth and nail against bandits the entire way, eh?" said Flitney, his grin widening. Murkins only rolled his eyes.

"Precisely," agreed Harry. "It's too big to floo back, and the contents aren't shrinkable, so…"

"So we've got to bring it back the hard way," finished Murkins. "Wonderful. Are we just going to stroll down the sidewalk with it, or…"

"The Ministry has arranged for transportation," cut in Duke. "There is a Muggle automobile waiting outside. The interior has been enlarged so as to fit the item within."

"Right. So, if you two don't mind…" Harry said, giving a nod in the crate's direction.

Murkins drew his wand and gave it a swish and a flick, but the crate failed to move.

"The crate has been charmed to negate any spells cast upon it," Duke said smugly. "It wouldn't do for it to be summoned away from you by any potential thieves during the transit."

"You mean we've got to carry it out the _Muggle_ way?" Flitney asked incredulously.

"Just to the car, and through the Ministry. Why do you think I needed you two to come along?" asked Harry with a grin.

"Exactly how breakable is this thing?"

"The artifact is protected by Cushioning Charms," Duke told Murkins. "I wouldn't recommend dropping it, all the same."

"Good to know," replied the Auror in a wry voice.

"Ugh! Couldn't you have cast a Featherweight Charm on the box _first_?" grunted Flitney as the two leaned it back and bent their knees, one end resting rather awkwardly on his back while Murkins lifted the other.

"The artifact itself is not that heavy," Duke said.

"Says the guy staying behind while _we_ do all the heavy lifting."

If Harry weren't entirely convinced the man had no sense of humor, he would have almost sworn Duke gave his Auror's statement an amused little, if slightly malicious, smile.

"Are we really expecting someone to make a move for this thing?" grumbled Murkins at Harry as he and Flitney set out for the door like an awkward, burdened centaur.

"It's been kept pretty quiet around the Ministry. I'm not anticipating much trouble. But better safe than sorry, you know?"

Harry slipped past them, guiding them down the hall and down the stairs, wand out and ready to cast a Cushioning Charm on the floor if they did drop it. Despite the pair's groans and complaints, the box was indeed not that heavy, though the weight was awkwardly distributed, one end heavier than the other. Judging by the smirk on Murkins' face, it appeared Flitney had been saddled with the short end of the stick.

Harry held the door open for the two with his wand, nodding farewell to the estate's overseer as he and his men approached the car, keeping a lookout for anything out of the ordinary or any figures lurking behind the hedges. It took some doing to get the crate through the door of the car, but once they got it in it slid in well enough. The car's interior had indeed been magically enlarged; it felt almost as if they were within a bus, with leather seats lining the sides as if they were in a double-wide limousine.

The drive back into London did not take all that long, and the three conversed easily about their families and Quidditch standings along the way (Flitney was an ardent supporter of Puddlemere United, who looked set to sweep the league that year; Harry felt compelled to defend the Holyhead Harpies, as his best friend's sister had played for that team, back in the day). Their driver was silent and brooding the entire way back, even more so than the norm for Ministry chauffeurs—much later, Harry would learn from a rather miffed Ron that the man was a fellow Chudley Cannons supporter, and hadn't appreciated their enthusiastically trash-talking his team.

When they reached the visitor's access point to the Ministry (it had been deemed less likely to be observed than the employees' entrance), the street around them was curiously deserted.

"Muggle Repelling Charms," Harry explained as Flitney and Murkins lugged the crate out of the car and over to the entrance. "And I've put a Disillusionment Charm on the booth, so once we get over to it we're free to use magic."

Flitney gave a low whistle. "You're really rolling out all the stops for this thing, aren't you?"

"I'd rather go overboard than have it swiped right out from under our noses," Harry told him.

"Constant Vigilance!" snapped Flitney and Murkins together, repeating their boss's frequent mantra.

"I don't say it like that," muttered Harry.

Once they'd gotten closer, Harry aimed his wand at the telephone booth. They couldn't shrink the crate, but he could enlarge the booth so that the three of them could fit inside comfortably with it.

The descent into the Ministry of Magic yielded another surprise: the Atrium was completely deserted, aside from the guards at the security desk.

"We've closed off the place for the hour, didn't want to have to deal with the security risk the crowd would've presented. This way, we're heading towards the Magical Maintenance Department's offices."

Harry led the two down a hallway and past several checkpoints; aside from a pair of Aurors at every checkpoint, who'd invariably greet them with a nod, there was not a soul in sight.

Eventually they reached a large storeroom, into which they moved the package. Once they'd made the delivery, they began warding the room, drawing circles around the crate with their wands and layering on Repulsion Jinxes and different protective charms, along with a fair amount of alarms.

"Alright, looks good. There's gonna be a twenty-four hour guard outside this room, and you two just picked up first shift, congratulations."

"Gee, thanks, boss."

"Relax, you'll be relieved before lunchtime."

"Coming, Harry?" called Murkins as he and Flitney headed for the door.

"Nah, I'll stick around for a bit, maybe add a few of my own specialty wards…"

"…like the kind that turned Ron into a Puffskein when he tried to sneak into your office that one time?"

"…maybe, actually. Damaging to morale, if nothing else, that one. Plus I want to take a look inside the box," Harry said with a smirk.

"Could we stick around for that?" asked Flitney, giving his boss his best attempt at puppy dog eyes.

"Sorry, Warren, the secrecy on this one goes all the way to the top. I told the Minister I wouldn't let anyone anybody else know what it was until I got his ok on it. We'll be moving it to the museum later on once they get their own wards set up; I promise I'll let you know what it is then."

"You just like keeping secrets from us."

"What's the point of being Head of the Auror Office if not for the perks?"

Flitney flashed him a grin. "Gotcha, boss. Want to catch lunch with us?"

"Sure thing. You guys pick the place, I'll tag along when you get off guard duty. No one in or out but me."

"Aye aye, boss. See you in a bit, then."

After Flitney and Murkins let themselves out, Harry laid down a few more wards around the crate and the door and set up the password to safely approach the center of the room. After reviewing his work, he cast _Finite_ on the crate and disassembled it, vanishing the wooden panels into the ether.

Before him stood the mirror, still hidden beneath its sheet.

He thought back to the first time he'd ever looked into it, and wondered what he would see this time when he pulled back the canvas.

Behind him, he heard the door open, and he let out an annoyed sigh. At least the sheet was still covering it. "I thought I made clear that you two weren't supposed—"

Faint footsteps sounded right behind him and soft, feminine hands reached round and covered his eyes. He smiled.

"How'd you get in? The Atrium's closed, and I told those two not to let anyone in…"

"All your Aurors are smart enough not to annoy the boss' wife."

"Yeah, we cover that in day one of training."

She uncovered his eyes and he turned around to give her a soft kiss.

"So this is what's had you so excited the past few days?" Hermione asked him.

"…maybe," said Harry, knowing that promise to Kingsley or not, he was only delaying the inevitable.

"Everyone's been in meetings all morning and I got sick of staring at the same dockets over and over again so I thought I'd stop by your office and see you, but Demeter told me you were out on a special assignment."

"How'd you find me?"

"Had to force some Veritaserum down her throat and then knock heads together until I got here," his wife told him, eyes shining.

"You just followed the checkpoints out of the Atrium, didn't you."

"Yep."

He put an arm around her, turning his head back to look at the veiled mirror.

"I got an owl from Rose this morning," his wife told him after a moment of comfortable silence.

Harry smirked a bit at the mention of their eldest daughter. "What did Harry James do this time?"

Harry James Sirius Potter was every bit as smart as his mother, he knew, could be Head Boy next year if he set his mind to it, but foolishly they'd named him after three of the biggest rule-breakers Hogwarts had ever seen, and he'd taken up their legacy proudly.

Harry had originally just wanted to name him James Sirius, after his father and godfather, but Hermione had been adamant that they name their firstborn after him; if Rose had been born first, she would've been named Harriet. When he'd asked his wife why she had been so insistent, she merely told him with a smile that she was honoring an old flame's last request.

"Nothing," Hermione snorted. "Actually, she wanted some advice."

"Advice, eh? What about?"

Hermione mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, "Um, boys."

"Boys?" Harry asked, staring down at his wife in what may or may not have been mock horror.

"Well, she is getting to that age…"

"Any boys in particular I ought to worry about?"

"Um, maybe Scorpius Malfoy?"

His hand made a loud smacking noise as it collided with his forehead.

Harry had always been protective of his Rose; originally they'd wanted to name her Lily, after his mother, but upon seeing the baby had inherited her chocolate brown orbs Hermione had convinced him to name her Rose instead. It had been a good decision—it had allowed them to name their youngest Lily Luna, who like her older brother Albus Severus had inherited Harry's green eyes.

They'd decided together that they didn't want to have more than four, but Harry had made it very clear to all of their children that he and Hermione both expected their first grandson to be named Ronald Remus Peter.

He had just hoped it would be many, _many_ more years until he would have to worry about said grandchild.

"Remind her I've got a permanent Chastity Detection Charm cast on her."

"There's no such thing, dear."

"_We_ know that, but she won't figure that out for a few more years."

His wife snorted again.

"So are you going to show me this thing or what?" she asked him, gesturing back to the object in the center of the room.

"You know, I could get in big trouble for even having you in here…"

"Pfft, like that's ever stopped you before."

With a flick of his wand, the cloth draped over the artifact slid to the floor, and Hermione let out a long "Oooooh" of appreciation.

_Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi_...

"Where did you get it?" she asked him, a touch of awe in her voice. She remembered well his and Ron's stories about what they'd seen in the fabled Mirror.

"Dumbledore gave it to Elphias Doge after that business with the Stone our first year," Harry told her. "And after his death last month he bequeathed it to the Ministry. Kingsley wants it put on public display. It's sat in private viewing rooms for long enough."

"It's safe here until then?"

"Yeah, we just finished putting up a whole boatload of wards in this room, they'll take effect as soon as we leave."

"Sherbet lemon?" she guessed.

"_Acid Pop_," he whispered in her ear.

The two stood there for a long while, gazing into the glass.

"You sure this is the right mirror?" she asked him after a minute.

"Yeah, I don't understand it…" said Harry, cocking his head in confusion.

Staring back at them as they looked into the mirror was a simple reflection of the two, him with his arm around her. The expression on her reflection's face was one of disappointment, and his perplexed, as they tried to figure out why the mirror wasn't showing them anything more out of the ordinary than they'd see in their own bathroom mirror at home.

Abruptly, he began to laugh.

"What's so funny?" she asked him.

But he was too busy laughing to explain, the voice of Albus Dumbledore ringing in his ears, repeating the same words he'd spoken to him all those years ago…

"_But I expect you've realized by now what it does?"_

"_It—well—it shows me my family—"_

"_And it showed your friend Ron himself as Head Boy."_

"_How did you know—?"_

"_I don't need a cloak to become invisible. Now, can you think what the Mirror of Erised shows us all?_

"_Let me explain. The happiest man on earth would be able to use the Mirror of Erised like a normal mirror, that is, he would look into it and see himself exactly as he is. Does that help?"_

"_It shows us what we want… whatever we want…"_

"_Yes and no. It shows us nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts…"_

Hermione looked at him like he'd sprouted a third eyeball, but after a moment she figured it out too and began to laugh as well.

And within the looking glass, his frosty counterpart pulled his wife to him and gave her another kiss, and she put her arms around his neck returning the kiss with the softest of satisfied sighs…


End file.
